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OF CAMPFIRE STORIES 







































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THERE, STANDING KNEE-DEEP IN THE WATER, WAS THE BIGGEST AND 
BLACKEST MOOSE IN THE WORLD 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK 
OF CAMPFIRE STORIES 


EDITED 

WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
BY 

FRANKLIN K. MATHIEWS 

CHIEF SCOUT LIBRARIAN, 

BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA 


PUBLISHED FOR 

THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK MCMXXI 



COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 



PB INTEL' IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


SEP -2 W21 

©CI.A622629 


/VO t 


BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 


The campfire for ages has been the place of council 
and friendship and story-telling The mystic glow of 
the fire quickens the mind, warms the heart, awakens 
memories of happy, glowing tales that fairly leap to the 
lips. The Boy Scouts of America has incorporated the 
“campfire” in its program for council and friendship 
and story-telling. In one volume, the Boy Scouts Book 
of Campfire Stories makes available to scoutmasters and 
other leaders a goodly number of stories worthy of 
their attention, and when well told likely to arrest and 
hold the interest of boys in their early teens, when “stirs 
the blood — to bubble in the veins.” 

At this time, when the boy is growing so rapidly in 
brain and body, he can have no better teacher than some 
mighty woodsman. Now should be presented to him 
stirring stories of the adventurous lives of men who 
live in and love the out-of-doors. Says Professor 
George Walter Fiske : “Let him emulate savage wood- 
craft; the woodsman’s keen, practiced vision; his stead- 
iness of nerve ; his contempt for pain, hardship and the 
weather; his power of endurance, his observation and 
heightened senses ; his delight in out-of-door sports and 
joys and unfettered happiness with untroubled sleep 
under the stars; his calmness, self-control, emotional 
steadiness; his utter faithfulness in friendships; his 
honesty, his personal bravery.” 

The Editor likes to think that quite a few of the 
stories found in the Boy Scouts Book of Campfire 


VI 


BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 


Stories present companions for the mind of this hardy 
sort, and hopes, whether boys read or are told these 
stories, they will prove to be such as exalt and inspire 
while they thrill and entertain. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTBR 

Introduction . . . 


PAGE 

V 

I. 

SlLVERHORNS . . . 

. . Henry van Dyke 

I 

II. 

Wild Horse Hunter 

. . . . Zane Grey 

21 

III. 

Hydrophobic Skunk . 

. Irvin S. Cobb 

90 

IV. 

The Ole Virginia . 

Stewart Edward White 

IOO 

V. 

The Weight of Obligation . . Rex Beach 

108 

VI. 

That Spot . . . 


140 

VII. 

When Lincoln Licked a Bully 

Irving Bachcller 

155 

VIII. 

The End of the Trail 

. Clarence E. Mulford 

l80 

IX. 

Dey Ain’t No Ghosts 

. Ellis Parker Butler 

201 

X. 

The Night Operator . 

. Frank L. Packard 

2l8 

XI. 

Christmas Eve in a Lumber Camp 

Ralph Connor 

258 

XII. 

The Story That the Keg Told Me 

Adirondack (W. H. H .) Murray 

275 










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I. — Silverhorns 1 


By Henry van Dyke 

T HE railway station of Bathurst, New Bruns- 
wick, did not look particularly merry at two 
o’clock of a late September morning. There 
was an easterly haze driving in from the Baie des 
Chaleurs and the darkness was so saturated with chilly 
moisture that an honest downpour of rain would have 
been a relief. Two or three depressed and somnolent 
travelers yawned in the waiting room, which smelled 
horribly of smoky lamps. The telegraph instrument 
in the ticket office clicked spasmodically for a minute, 
and then relapsed into a gloomy silence. The im- 
perturbable station master was tipped back against the 
wall in a wooden armchair, with his feet on the table, 
and his mind sunk in an old Christmas number of the 
Cowboy Magazine. The express agent, in the bag- 
gage-room, was going over his last week’s waybills and 
accounts by the light of a lantern, trying to locate an 

i From Days Off. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner’s 
Sons. Used by permission of the publishers. 


I 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


error, and sighing profanely to himself as he failed 
to find it. A wooden trunk tied with rope, a couple of 
dingy canvas bags, a long box marked “ Fresh Fish! 
Rush! ” and two large leather portmanteaus with brass 
fittings were piled on the luggage truck at the far end 
of the platform; and beside the door of the waiting 
room, sheltered by the overhanging eaves, was a neat 
traveling bag, with a gun case and a rod case leaning 
against the wall. The wet rails glittered dimly north- 
ward and southward away into the night. A few 
blurred lights glimmered from the village across the 
bridge. 

Dudley Hemenway had observed all these features 
of the landscape with silent dissatisfaction, as he 
smoked steadily up and down the platform, waiting 
for the Maritime Express. It is usually irritating to 
arrive at the station on time for a train on the Inter- 
colonial Railway. The arrangement is seldom mutual ; 
and sometimes yesterday’s train does not come along 
until to-morrow afternoon. Moreover, Hemenway 
was inwardly discontented with the fact that he was 
coming out of the woods instead of going in. “ Com- 
ing out ” always made him a little unhappy, whether 
his expedition had been successful or not. He did not 
like the thought that it was all over; and he had the 
very bad habit, at such times, of looking ahead and 
computing the slowly lessening number of chances that 
were left to him. 

" Sixty odd years — I may get to be that old and 
2 


SILVERHORNS 


keep my shooting sight,” he said to himself. “ That 
would give me a couple of dozen more camping trips. 
It’s a short allowance. I wonder if any of them will 
be more lucky than this one. This makes the seventh 
year I’ve tried to get a moose; and the odd trick has 
gone against me every time.” 

He tossed away the end of his cigar, which made a 
little trail of sparks as it rolled along the sopping plat- 
form, and turned to look in through the window of the 
ticket office. Something in the agent’s attitude of lit- 
erary absorption aggravated him. He went round to 
the door and opened it. 

“ Don’t you know or care when this train is com- 
ing?” 

“ Nope,” said the man placidly. 

“Well, when? What’s the matter with her? 
When is she due?” 

“ Doo twenty minits ago,” said the man. “ Forty 
minits late down to Moocastle. Git here quatter to 
three, ef nothin’ more happens.” 

“ But what has happened ? What’s wrong with the 
beastly old road, anyhow? ” 

“ Freight car skipped the track,” said the man, “ up 
to Charlo. Everythin’ hung up an’ kinder goin’ slow 
till they git the line clear. Dunno nothin’ more.” 

With this conclusive statement the agent seemed to 
disclaim all responsibility for the future of impatient 
travelers, and dropped his mind back into the maga- 
zine again. Hemenway lit another cigar and went into 
3 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


the baggage room to smoke with the expressman. It 
was nearly three o'clock when they heard the far-off 
shriek of the whistle sounding up from the south; 
then, after an interval, the puffing of the engine on the 
upgrade; then the faint ringing of the rails, the in- 
creasing clatter of the train, and the blazing headlight 
of the locomotive swept slowly through the darkness, 
past the platform. The engineer was leaning on one 
arm, with his head out of the cab window, and Hemen- 
way nodded as he passed and hurried into the ticket 
office, where the ticktack of a conversation by telegraph 
was soon under way. The black porter of the Pullman 
car was looking out from the vestibule, and when he 
saw Hemenway his sleepy face broadened into a grin 
reminiscent of many generous tips. 

“ Howdy, *Mr. Hennigray,” he cried ; " glad to see 
yo’ ag’in, sah ! I got yo’ section all right, sah ! 
Lemme take yo' things, sah! Train gwine to stop 
hy’eh fo’ some time yet, I reckon.” 

“ Well, Charles,” said Hemenway, “ you take my 
things and put them in the car. Careful with that gun 
now! The Lord only knows how much time this 
train’s going to lose. I'm going ahead to see the 
engineer.” 

Angus McLeod was a grizzle-bearded Scotchman 
who had run a locomotive on the Intercolonial ever 
since the road was cut through the woods from New 
Brunswick to Quebec. Every one who traveled often 
on that line knew him, and all who knew him well 
4 


SILVERHORNS 

enough to get below his rough crust, liked him for his 
big heart. 

“ Hallo, McLeod/’ said Hemenway as he came up 
through the darkness, “ is that you ? ” 

“ It’s nane else,” answered the engineer as he stepped 
down from his cab and shook hands warmly. “ Hoo 
are ye, Dud, an’ whaur hae ye been murderin’ the 
innocent beasties noo? Hae ye kilt yer moose yet? 
Ye’ve been chasin’ him these mony years.” 

“ Not much murdering,” replied Hemenway. “ I 
had a queer trip this time — away up the Nepisiguit, 
with old McDonald. You know him, don’t you? ” 

“ Fine do I ken Rob McDonald, an’ a guid mon he 
is. Hoo was it that ye couldna slaughter stacks 
o’ moose wi’ him to help ye? Did ye see nane at 
all?” 

“ Plenty, and one with the biggest horns in the 
world! But that’s a long story, and there’s no time 
to tell it now.” 

“ Time to burrn, Dud, nae fear o’ it! ’Twill be 
an hour afore the line’s clear to Charlo an’ they lat us 
oot o’ this. Come awa’ up into the cab, mon, an’ tell 
us yer tale. ’Tis couthy an’ warm in the cab, an’ I’m 
willin’ to leesten to yer bluidy advaintures.” 

So the two men clambered up into the engineer’s 
seat. Hemenway gave McLeod his longest and strong- 
est cigar, and filled his own briar-wood pipe. The 
rain was now pattering gently on the roof of the cab. 
The engine hissed and sizzled patiently in the dark- 
5 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


ness. The fragrant smoke curled steadily from the 
glowing tip of the cigar; but the pipe went out half a 
dozen times while Hemenway was telling the story of 
Silverhorns. 

“ We went up the river to the big rock, just below 
Indian Falls. There we made our main camp, intend- 
ing to hunt on Forty-two Mile Brook. There’s quite a 
snarl of ponds and bogs at the head of it, and some 
burned hills over to the west, and it’s very good moose 
country. 

“ But some other party had been there before us, 
and we saw nothing on the ponds, except two cow 
moose and a calf. Coming out the next morning we 
got a fine deer on the old wood road — a beautiful 
head. But I have plenty of deer heads already.” 

“ Bonny creature ! ’ said McLeod. “ An’ what did 
ye do wi’ it, when ye had murdered it? ” 

“ Ate it, of course. I gave the head to Billy 
Boucher, the cook. He said he could get ten dollars 
for it. The next evening we went to one of the ponds 
again, and Injun Pete tried to ‘ call ’ a moose for me. 
But it was no good. McDonald was disgusted with 
Pete’s calling; said it sounded like the bray of a wild 
ass of the wilderness. So the next day we gave up 
calling and traveled the woods over toward the burned 
hills. 

“ In the afternoon McDonald found an enormous 
moose-track; he thought it looked like a bull’s track, 
though he wasn’t quite positive. But then, you know, 

6 


SILVERHORNS 


a Scotchman never likes to commit himself, except 
about theology or politics.” 

“ Humph ! ” grunted McLeod in the darkness, show- 
ing that the strike had counted. 

“ Well, we went on, following that track through 
the woods, for an hour or two. It was a terrible coun- 
try, I tell you : tamarack swamps, and spruce thickets, 
and windfalls, and all kinds of misery. Presently we 
came out on a bare rock on the burned hillside, and 
there, across a ravine, we could see the animal lying 
down, just below the trunk of a big dead spruce that 
had fallen. The beast’s head and neck were hidden 
by some bushes, but the fore shoulder and side were 
in clear view, about two hundred and fifty yards away. 
McDonald seemed to be inclined to think that it was a 
bull and that I ought to shoot. So I shot, and knocked 
splinters out of the spruce log. We could see them 
fly. The animal got up quickly, and looked at us for 
a moment, shaking her long ears ; then the huge unmit- 
igated cow vamoosed into the brush. McDonald re- 
marked that it was ‘ a varra fortunate shot, almaist 
providaintial ! ’ And so it was; for if it had gone six 
inches lower, and the news gotten out at Bathurst, 
it would have cost me a fine of two hundred dol- 
lars.” 

“ Ye did weel, Dud,” puffed McLeod; “varra weel 
indeed — for the coo ! ” 

“ After that,” continued Hemenway, “ of course my 
nerve was a little shaken, and we went back to the 
7 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


main camp on the river, to rest over Sunday. That 
was all right, wasn’t it, Mac ! ” 

“ Aye ! ” replied McLeod, who was a strict member 
of the Presbyterian church at Moncton. “ That was 
surely a varra safe thing to do. Even a hunter, I’m 
thinkin’, wouldna like to be breakin’ twa command- 
ments in the ane day — the foorth and the saxth ! ” 

“ Perhaps not. It’s enough to break one, as you do 
once a fortnight when you run your train into Riviere 
du Loup Sunday morning. How’s that, you old Cal- 
vinist ? ” 

“ Dudley, ma son,” said the engineer, “ dinna airgue 
a point that ye canna understond. There’s guid an’ 
suffeecient reasons for the train. But ye’ll ne’er be 
claimin’ that moose huntin’ is a wark o’ necessity or 
maircy? ” 

“No, no, of course not; but then, , you see, barring 
Sundays, we felt that it was necessary to do all we 
could to get a moose, just for the sake of our reputa- 
tions. Billy, the cook, was particularly strong about 
it. He said that an old woman in Bathurst, a kind of 
fortune teller, had told him that he was going to have 
1 la bonne chance ’ on this trip. He wanted to try 
his own mouth at ‘ calling.’ He had never really done 
it before. But he had been practicing all winter in 
imitation of a tame cow moose that Johnny Moreau 
had, and he thought he could make the sound ‘ b’en 
bon.’ So he got the birch-bark horn and gave us a 
sample of his skill. McDonald told me privately that 
8 


SILVERHORNS 


it was ‘ nae sa bad ; a deal better than Pete’s feckless 
bellow.’ We agreed to leave the Indian to keep the 
camp (after locking up the whisky flask in my bag), 
and take Billy with us on Monday to * call ’ at Hogan’s 
Pond. 

“ It’s a small bit of water, about three quarters of a 
mile long and. four hundred yards across, and four 
miles back from the river. There is no trail to it, but a 
blazed line runs part of the way, and for the rest you 
follow up the little brook that runs out of the pond. 
We stuck up our shelter in a hollow on the brook, 
half a mile below the pond, so that the smoke of our 
fire would not drift over the hunting ground, and 
waited till five o’clock in the afternoon. Then we went 
up to the pond, and took our position in a clump of 
birch trees on the edge of the open meadow that runs 
round the east shore. Just at dark Billy began to call, 
and it was beautiful. You know how it goes. Three 
short grunts, and then a long ooooo-aaaa-ooooh, wind- 
ing up with another grunt! It sounded lonelier than 
a love-sick hippopotamus on the house top. It rolled 
and echoed over the hills as if it would wake the dead. 

“ There was a fine moon shining, nearly full, and a 
few clouds floating by. Billy called, and called, and 
called again. The air grew colder and colder; light 
frost on the meadow grass ; our teeth were chattering, 
fingers numb. 

“ Then we heard a bull give a short bawl, away off 
to the southward. Presently we could hear his horns 
9 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 

knock against the trees, far up on the hill. McDonald 
whispered, ‘ He’s cornin’/ and Billy gave another call. 

“ But it was another bull that answered, back of the 
north end of the pond, and pretty soon we could hear 
him rapping along through the woods. Then every- 
thing was still. ‘ Call agen,’ says McDonald, and Billy 
called again. 

“ This time the bawl came from another bull, on top 
of the western hill, straight across the pond. It seemed 
to start up the other two bulls, and we could hear all 
three of them thrashing along, as fast as they could 
come, towards the pond. ‘ Call agen, a wee one,’ says 
McDonald, trembling with joy. And Billy called a 
little seducing call, with two grunts at the end. 

“ Well, sir, at that, a cow and a calf came rushing 
down through the brush not two hundred yards away 
from us, and the three bulls went splash into the water, 
one at the south end, one at the north end, and one on 
the west shore. ‘ Land,’ whispers McDonald, * it’s a 
meenadgerie ! ’ ” 

“ Dud,” said the engineer, getting down to open the 
furnace door a crack, “ this is mair than murder ye’re 
cornin’ at; it’s a buitchery — or else it’s juist a pack o’ 
lees.” 

“I give you my word,” said Hemenway, “it’s all 
true as the catechism. But let me go on. The cow 
and the calf only stayed in the water a few minutes, 
and then ran back through the woods. But the three 
bulls went sloshing around in the pond as if they were 
io 


SILVERHORNS 


looking for something. We could hear them, but we 
could not see any of them, for the sky had clouded 
up, and they kept far away from us. Billy tried an- 
other short call, but they did not come any nearer. 
McDonald whispered that he thought the one in the 
south end might be the biggest, and he might be feed- 
ing, and the two others might be young bulls, and they 
might be keeping away because they were afraid of 
the big one. This seemed reasonable; and I said 
that I was going to crawl around the meadow to the 
south end. * Keep near a tree/ says Mac ; and I 
started. 

“ There was a deep trail, worn by animals, through 
the high grass ; and in this I crept along on my hands 
and knees. It was very wet and muddy. My boots 
were full of cold water. After ten minutes I came to 
a little point running out into the pond, and one young 
birch growing on it. Under this I crawled, and rising 
up on my knees looked over the top of the grass and 
bushes. 

“ There, in a shallow bay, standing knee-deep in 
the water, and rooting up the lily stems with his long, 
pendulous nose, was the biggest and blackest bull moose 
in the world. As he pulled the roots from the mud 
and tossed up his dripping head I could see his horns 
— four and a half feet across, if they were an inch, 
and the palms shining like tea trays in the moonlight. 
I tell you, old Silverhorns was the most beautiful mon- 
ster I ever saw. 


ii 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ But he was too far away to shoot bv that dim 
light, so I left my birch tree and crawled along toward 
the edge of the bay. A breath of wind must have 
blown across me to him, for he lifted his head, sniffed, 
grunted, came out of the water, and began to trot 
slowly along the trail which led past me. I knelt on 
one knee and tried to take aim. A black cloud came 
over the moon. I couldn’t see either of the sights on 
the gun. But when the bull came opposite to me, 
about fifty yards off, I blazed away at a venture. 

“ He reared straight up on his hind legs — it looked 
as if he rose fifty feet in the air — wheeled, and went 
walloping along the trail, around the south end of the 
pond. In a minute he was lost in the woods. Good- 
by, Silverhorns ! ” 

“ Ye tell it weel,” said McLeod, reaching out for a 
fresh cigar. “Fegs! Ah doot Sir Walter himsel’ 
couldna impruve upon it. An, sae thot’s the way ye 
didna murder puir Seelverhorrns ? It’s a tale I’m 
joyfu’ to be hearin’.” 

“ Wait a bit,” Hemenway answered. “ That’s not 
the end, by a long shot. There’s worse to follow. 
The next morning we returned to the pond at day- 
break, for McDonald thought I might have wounded, 
the moose. We searched the bushes and the woods 
where he went out very carefully, looking for drops 
of blood on his trail.” 

“Bluid!” groaned the engineer. “ Hech, mon, 
wouldna that come nigh to mak’ ye greet, to find the 

12 


SILVERHORNS 


beast’s red bluid splashed over the leaves, and think o’ 
him staggerin’ on thro’ the forest, drippin’ the heart 
oot o’ him wi’ every step ? ” 

“ But we didn’t find any blood, you old sentimental- 
ist. That shot in the dark was a clear miss. We fol- 
lowed the trail by broken bushes and footprints, for 
half a mile, and then came back to the pond and turned 
to go down through the edge of the woods to the camp. 

“ It was just after sunrise. I was walking a few 
yards ahead, McDonald next, and Billy last. Sud- 
denly he looked around to the left, gave a low whistle 
and dropped to the ground, pointing northward. 
Away at the head of the pond, beyond the glitter of 
the sun on the water, the big blackness of Silverhorns’ 
head and body was pushing through the bushes, drip- 
ping with dew. 

“ Each of us flopped down behind the nearest shrub 
as if we had been playing squat tag. Billy had the 
birch-bark horn with him, and he gave a low, short 
call. Silverhorns heard it, turned, and came parading 
slowly down the western shore, now on the sand beach, 
now splashing through the shallow water. We could 
see every motion and hear every sound. He marched 
along as if he owned the earth, swinging his huge head 
from side to side and grunting at each step. 

“ You see, we were just in the edge of the woods, 
strung along the south end of the pond, Billy nearest 
the west shore, where the moose was walking, McDon- 
ald next, and I last, perhaps fifteen yards farther to the 
13 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


east. It was a fool arrangement, but we had no time 
to think about it. McDonald whispered that I should 
wait until the moose came close to us and stopped. 

“ So I waited. I could see him swagger along the 
sand and step out around the fallen logs. The nearer 
he came the bigger his horns looked; each palm was 
like an enormous silver fish fork with twenty prongs. 
Then he went out of my sight for a minute as he passed 
around a little bay in the southwest corner, getting 
nearer and nearer to Billy. But I could still hear his 
steps distinctly — slosh, slosh, slosh — thud, thud, thud 
(the grunting had stopped) — closer came the sound, 
until it was directly behind the dense green branches 
of a fallen balsam tree, not twenty feet away from 
Billy. Then suddenly the noise ceased. I could hear 
my own heart pounding at my ribs, but nothing else. 
And of Silverhorns not hair nor hide was visible. It 
looked as if he must be a Boo j urn, and had the power 
to e softly and silently vanish away/ 

“ Billy and Mac were beckoning to me fiercely and 
pointing to the green balsam top. I gripped my rifle 
and started to creep toward them. A little twig, about 
as thick as the tip of a fishing rod, cracked under my 
knee. There was a terrible crash behind the balsam, 
a plunging through the underbrush and a rattling 
among the branches, a lumbering gallop up the hill 
through the forest, and Silverhorns was gone into the 
invisible. 

“ He had stopped behind the tree because he smelled 
14 


SILVERHORNS 


the grease on Billy’s boots. As he stood there, hesi- 
tating, Billy and Mac could see his shoulder and his 
side through a gap in the branches — a dead-easy shot. 
But so far as I was concerned, he might as well have 
been in Alaska. I told you that the way we had placed 
ourselves was a fool arrangement. But McDonald 
would not say anything about it, except to express his 
conviction that it was not predestinated we should get 
that moose.” 

“ Ah dinna ken ould Rob had sae much theology 
aboot him,” commented McLeod. “ But noo I’m 
thinkin’ ye went back to yer main camp, an’ lat puir 
Seelverhorrns live oot his life? ” 

“Not much, did we! For now we knew that he 
wasn’t badly frightened by the adventure of the night 
before, and that we might get another chance at him. 
In the afternoon it began to rain; and it poured for 
forty-eight hours. We covered in our shelter before 
a smoky fire, and lived on short rations of crackers 
and dried prunes — it was a hungry time.” 

“ But wasna there slathers o’ food at the main 
camp? Ony fule wad ken enough to gae doon to the 
river an’ tak’ a guid fill-up.” 

“ But that wasn’t what we wanted. It was Silver- 
horns. Billy and I made McDonald stay, and Thurs- 
day afternoon, when the clouds broke away, we went 
back to the pond to have a last try at turning our 
luck. 

“ This time we took our positions with great care, 
15 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


among some small spruces on a joint that ran out 
from the southern meadow. I was farthest to the 
west; McDonald (who had also brought his gun) was 
next; Billy, with the horn, was farthest away from 
the point where he thought the moose would come 
out. So Billy began to call, very beautifully. The 
long echoes went bellowing over the hills. The after- 
noon was still and the setting sun shone through a light 
mist, like a ball of red gold. 

“ Fifteen minutes after sundown Silverhorns gave a 
loud bawl from the western ridge and came crashing 
down the hill. He cleared the bushes two or three 
hundred yards to our left with a leap, rushed into the 
pond, and came wading around the south shore toward 
us. The bank here was rather high, perhaps four feet 
above the water, and the mud below it was deep, so 
that the moose sank in to his knees. I give you my 
word, as he came along there was nothing visible to 
Mac and me except his ears and his horns. Every- 
thing else was hidden below the bank. 

“ There were we behind our little spruce trees. 
And there was Silverhorns, standing still now, right in 
front of us. And all that Mac and I could see were 
those big ears and those magnificent antlers, appear- 
ing and disappearing as he lifted and lowered his head. 
It was a fearful situation. And there was Billy, with 
his birch-bark hooter, forty yards below us — he could 
see the moose perfectly. 

“ I looked at Mac, and he looked at me. He whis- 
16 


SILVERHORNS 


pered something about predestination. Then Billy 
lifted his horn and made ready to give a little soft 
grunt, to see if the moose wouldn’t move along a bit, 
just to oblige us. But as Billy drew in his breath, one 
of those fool flies that are always blundering around 
a man’s face flew straight down his throat. Instead 
of a call he burst out with a furious, strangling fit of 
coughing. The moose gave a snort, and a wild leap 
in the water, and galloped away under the bank, the 
way he had come. Mac and I both fired at his vanish- 
ing ears and horns, but of course ” 

“ All Aboooard ! ” The conductor’s shout rang 
along the platform. 

“ Line’s clear,” exclaimed McLeod, rising. “ Noo 
we’ll be off ! Wull ye stay here wi’ me, or gang awa’ 
back to yer bed? ” 

“ Here,” answered Hemenway, not budging from 
his place on the bench. 

The bell clanged, and the powerful machine puffed 
out on its flaring way through the night. Faster and 
faster came the big explosive breaths, until they 
blended in a long steady roar, and the train was sweep- 
ing northward at forty miles an hour. The clouds had 
broken ; the night had grown colder ; the gibbous moon 
gleamed over the vast and solit'ary landscape. It was 
a different thing to Hemenway, riding in the cab of 
the locomotive, from an ordinary journey in the pas- 
senger car or an unconscious ride in the sleeper. Here 
he was on the crest of motion, at the forefront of 
17 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


speed, and the quivering engine with the long train 
behind it seemed like a living creature leaping along 
the track. It responded to the labor of the fireman 
and the touch of the engineer almost as if it could 
think and feel. Its pace quickened without a jar; its 
great eye pierced the silvery space of moonlight with 
a shaft of blazing yellow; the rails sang before it and 
trembled behind it; it was an obedient and joyful mon- 
ster, conquering distance and devouring darkness. 

On the wide level barrens beyond the Tete-a-Gouche 
River the locomotive reached its best speed, purring 
like a huge cat and running smoothly. McLeod leaned 
back on his bench with a satisfied air. 

“ She’s doin’ fine, the nicht,” said he. “ Ah’m 
thinkin’, whiles, o’ yer auld Seelverhorrns. Whaur is 
he noo? Awa’ up on Higan’ Pond, gallantin’ around 
i’ the licht o’ the mune wi’ a lady moose, an’ the glad- 
ness juist bubblin’ in his hairt. Ye’re no sorry that 
he’s leevin’ yet, are ye, Dud ? ” 

“ Well,” answered Hemenway slowly, between the 
puffs of his pipe, “ I can’t say I’m sorry that he’s alive 
and happy, though I’m not glad that I lost him. But 
he did his best, the old rogue ; he played a good game, 
and he deserved to win. Where he is now nobody can 
tell. He was traveling like a streak of lightning when 

I last saw him. By this time he may be ” 

“ What’s yon?” cried McLeod, springing up. Far 
ahead, in the narrow apex of the converging rails 
stood a black form, motionless, mysterious. McLeod 
18 


SILVERHORNS 


grasped the whistle cord. The black form loomed 
higher in the moonlight and was clearly silhouetted 
against the horizon — a big moose standing across the 
track. They could see his grotesque head, his shadowy 
horns, high, sloping shoulders. The engineer pulled 
the cord. The whistle shrieked loud and long. 

The moose turned and faced the sound. The glare 
of the headlight fascinated, challenged, angered him. 
There he stood defiant, front feet planted wide apart, 
head lowered, gazing steadily at the unknown enemy 
that was rushing toward him. He was the monarch 
of the wilderness. There was nothing in the world 
that he feared, except those strange-smelling little 
beasts on two legs who crept around through the woods 
and shot fire out of sticks. This was surely not one 
of those treacherous animals, but some strange new 
creature that dared to shriek at him and try to drive 
him out of its way. He would not move. He would 
try his strength against this big yellow-eyed beast. 

“ Losh ! ” cried McLeod ; “ he’s gaun’ to fecht us ! ” 
and he dropped the cord, grabbed the levers, and threw 
the steam off and the brakes on hard. The heavy train 
slid groaning and jarring along the track. The moose 
never stirred. The fire smoldered in his small narrow 
eyes. His black crest was bristling. As the engine 
bore down upon him, not a rod away, he reared high 
in the air, his antlers flashing in the blaze, and struck 
full at the headlight with his immense fore feet. There 
was a shattering of glass, a crash, a heavy shock, and 
19 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


the train slid on through the darkness, lit only by the 
moon. 

Thirty or forty yards beyond, the momentum was 
exhausted and the engine came to a stop. Hemenway 
and McLeod clambered down and ran back, with the 
other trainmen and a few of the passengers. The 
moose was lying in the ditch beside the track, stone 
dead and frightfully shattered. But the great head 
and the vast spreading antlers were intact. 

“ Seelverhorrns, sure enough! ” said McLeod, bend- 
ing over him. “ He was crossin’ frae the Nepisiguit 
to the Jacquet; but he didna get across. Weel, Dud, 
are ye glad? Ye hae kilt yer first moose! ” 

“ Yes,” said Hemenway, “ it’s my first moose. But 
it’s your first moose, too. And I think it’s our last. 
Ye gods, what a fighter! ” 


II. — The Wild-Horse Hunter 1 

By Zane Grey 

I 

T HREE wild-horse hunters made camp one 
night beside a little stream in the Sevier Val- 
ley, five hundred miles, as a crow flies, from 
Bostil’s Ford. 

These hunters had a poor outfit, excepting, of course, 
their horses. They were young men, rangy in build, 
lean and hard from life in the saddle, bronzed like 
Indians, still-faced, and keen-eyed. Two of them ap- 
peared to be tired out, and lagged at the camp-fire 
duties. When the meager meal was prepared they sat, 
cross-legged, before a ragged tarpaulin, eating and 
drinking in silence. 

1 From Wildfire. Copyright, 1916, by Harper and Brothers, 
New York and London. Reprinted by special permission of 
author and publisher. 


21 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


The sky in the west was rosy, slowly darkening. 
The valley floor billowed away, ridged and cut, grow- 
ing gray and purple and dark. Walls of stone, pink 
with the last rays of the setting sun, inclosed the val- 
ley, stretching away toward a long, low, black moun- 
tain range. 

The place was wild, beautiful, open, with something 
nameless that made the desert different from any other 
country. It was, perhaps, a loneliness of vast stretches 
of valley and stone, clear to the eye, even after sunset. 
That black mountain range, which looked close enough 
to ride to before dark, was a hundred miles distant. 

The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by 
the time the hunters finished the meal. Then the camp 
fire had burned low. One of the three dragged 
branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. 
Quickly it flared up, with the white flame and crackle 
characteristic of dry cedar. The night wind had risen, 
moaning through the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, 
and it blew the fragrant wood smoke into the 
faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired to 
move. 

I reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind,” 
said one. 

“ Wal, Bill,” replied the other, dryly, “ your mind’s 
made up, else you’d not say smoke.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because there ain’t three pipefuls of thet precious 
tobacco left.” 


22 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


“ Thet’s one apiece, then. . . . Lin, come an’ 
smoke the last pipe with us.” 

The tallest of the three, he who had brought the fire- 
wood, stood in the bright light of the blaze. He looked 
the born rider, light, lithe, powerful. 

“ Sure, I’ll smoke,” he replied. 

Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, 
and, sitting down beside the fire, he composed himself 
to the enjoyment which his companions evidently con- 
sidered worthy of a decision they had reached. 

“ So this smokin' means you both want to turn 
back ? ” queried Lin, his sharp gaze glancing darkly 
bright in the glow of the fire. 

“Yep, we’ll turn back. An’, Gee! the relief I 
feel! ” replied one. 

“ We’ve been long cornin’ to it, Lin, an’ thet was 
for your sake,” replied the other. 

Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke 
as if reluctant to part with it. “ Let’s go on,” he said, 
quietly. 

“ No. I’ve had all I want of chasin’ thet wild stal- 
lion,” returned Bill, shortly. 

The other spread wide his hands and bent an ex- 
postulating look upon the one called Lin. “ We’re two 
hundred miles out,” he said. “There’s only a little 
flour left in the bag. No coffee! Only a little salt! 
All the hosses except your big Nagger are played out. 
We’re already in strange country. An’ you know 
what we’ve heerd of this an’ all to the south. It’s all 

23 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


canons, an’ somewheres down there is thet awful 
canon none of our people ever seen. But we’ve heerd 
of it. An awful cut-up country. ,, 

He finished with a conviction that no one could say 
a word against the common sense of his argument. 
Lin was silent, as if impressed. 

Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible 
gesture. “We can’t ketch Wildfire!” 

That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing 
argument than his comrade’s. 

“ Bill is sure right, if I’m wrong, which I ain’t,” 
went on the other. “ Lin, we’ve trailed thet wild stal- 
lion for six weeks. Thet’s the longest chase he ever 
had. He’s left his old range. He’s cut out his band, 
an’ left them, one by one. We’ve tried every trick 
we know on him. An’ he’s too smart for us. There’s 
a hoss! Why, Lin, we’re all but gone to the dogs 
chasin’ Wildfire. An’ now I’m done, an’ I’m glad of 
it.” 

There was another short silence, which presently 
Bill opened his lips to break. 

“ Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain’t denyin’ thet 
for a long time I’ve had hopes of ketchin’ Wildfire. 
He’s the grandest hoss I ever laid eyes on. I reckon 
no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a 
one. But now thet’s neither here nor there. . . . 
We’ve got to hit the back trail.” 

“ Boys, I reckon I’ll stick to Wildfire’s tracks,” said 
Lin, in the same quiet tone. 

24 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited 
and concerned. 

“ Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy over thet red 
hoss? ” 

“ I — reckon,” replied Slone. The working of his 
throat as he swallowed could be plainly seen by his 
companions. 

Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden 
understanding between them. They took Slone’s atti- 
tude gravely and they wagged their heads doubtfully. 
... It was significant of the nature of riders that they 
accepted his attitude and had consideration for his 
feelings. For them the situation subtly changed. For 
weeks they had been three wild-horse wranglers on a 
hard chase after a valuable stallion. They had failed 
to get even close to him. They had gone to the limit 
of their endurance and of the outfit, and it was time to 
turn back. But Slone had conceived that strange and 
rare longing for a horse — a passion understood, if 
not shared, by all riders. And they knew that he would 
catch Wildfire or die in the attempt. From that mo- 
ment their attitude toward Slone changed as subtly 
as had come the knowledge of his feeling. The grav- 
ity and gloom left their faces. It seemed they might 
have regretted what they had said about the futility 
of catching Wildfire. They did not want Slone to 
see or feel the hopelessness of his task. 

“ I tell you, Lin,” said Bill, “ your hoss Nagger’s as 
good as when we started.” 

25 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ Aw, he’s better,” vouchsafed the other rider. 
“ Nagger needed to lose some weight. Lin, have you 
got an extra set of shoes for him? ” 

“ No full set. Only three left,” replied Lin, so- 
berly. 

“ Wal, thet’s enough. You can keep Nagger shod. 
An’ mebbe thet red stallion will get sore feet an’ go 
lame. Then you’d stand a chance.” 

“ But Wildfire keeps travelin’ the valleys — the soft 
ground,” said Slone. 

“ No matter. He’s leavin’ the country, an’ he’s 
bound to strike sandstone sooner or later. Then, by 
gosh! mebbe he’ll wear off them hoofs.” 

“ Say, can’t he ring bells ofifen the rocks ? ” exclaimed 
Bill. 

“ Boys, do you think he’s leavin’ the country ? ” in- 
quired Slone, anxiously. 

“ Sure he is,” replied Bill. “ He ain’t the first stal- 
lion I’ve chased off the Sevier range. An’ I know. 
It’s a stallion thet makes for new country, when you 
push him hard.” 

“ Yep, Lin, he’s sure leavin’,” added the other com- 
rade. “ Why, he’s traveled a bee line for days ! I’ll 
bet he’s seen us many a time. Wildfire’s about as 
smart as any man. He was born wild, an’ his dam was 
born wild, an’ there you have it. The wildest of all 
wild creatures — a wild stallion, with the intelligence 
of a man ! A grand hoss, Lin, but one thet has killed 
stallions all over the Sevier range. A wild stallion 
26 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


thet’s a killer! I never liked him for thet. Could he 
be broke ? ” 

“ I’ll break him,” said Lin Slone, grimly. “ It’s 
gettin’ him thet’s the job. I’ve got patience to break 
a hoss. But patience can’t catch a streak of light- 

„• > if 

nin . 

“Nope; you’re right,” replied Bill. “If you have 
some luck you’ll get him — mebbe. If he wears out 
his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrow canon, or 
run him into a bad place where he can’t get by you. 
Thet might happen. An’ then, with Nagger, you stand 
a chance. Did you ever tire thet hoss ? ” 

“Not yet.” 

“ An’ how fur did you ever run him without a 
break? Why, when we ketched thet sorrel last year 
I rode Nagger myself — thirty miles, most at a hard 
gallop. An’ he never turned a hair ! ” 

“ I’ve beat thet,” replied Lin. “ He could run hard 
fifty miles — mebbe more. Honestly, I never seen 
him tired yet. If only he was fast! ” 

“ Wal, Nagger ain’t so slow, come to think of thet,” 
replied Bill, with a grunt. “ He’s good enough for 
you not to want another hoss.” 

“ Lin, you’re goin’ to wear out Wildfire, an’ then 
trap him somehow — is thet the plan? ” asked the other 
comrade. 

" I haven’t any plan. I’ll just trail him, like a 
cougar trails a deer.” 

“ Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he’ll have to 
27 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


fly. You've got the best eyes for tracks of any 
wrangler in Utah." 

Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubt- 
ful smile on his dark face. He did not reply, and no 
more was said by his comrades. They rolled with 
backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the 
keen wind was cold and cutting ; and then he lay down, 
his head on his saddle, with a goatskin under him and 
a saddle blanket over him. 

All three were soon asleep. The wind whipped the 
sand and ashes and smoke over the sleepers. Coyotes 
barked from near in darkness, and from the valley 
ridge came the faint mourn of a hunting wolf. The 
desert night grew darker and colder. 

The Stewart brothers were wild-horse hunters for 
the sake of trades and occasional sales. But Lin Slone 
never traded nor sold a horse he had captured. The 
excitement of the game, and the lure of the desert, 
and the love of a horse were what kept him at the 
profitless work. His type was rare in the uplands. 

These were the early days of the settlement of Utah, 
and only a few of the hardiest and most adventurous 
pioneers had penetrated the desert in the southern part 
of that vast upland. And with them came some of 
that wild breed of riders to which Slone and the Stew- 
arts belonged. Horses were really more important and 
necessary than men ; and this singular fact gave these 
lonely riders a calling. 


28 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 

Before the Spaniards came there were no horses in 
the West. Those explorers left or lost horses all over 
the southwest. Many of them were Arabian horses of 
purest blood. American explorers and travelers, at 
the outset of the nineteenth century, encountered count- 
less droves of wild horses all over the plains. Across 
the Grand Canon, however, wild horses were compara- 
tively few in number in the early days ; and these had 
probably come in by way of California. 

The Stewarts and Slone had no established mode of 
catching wild horses. The game had not developed 
fast enough for that. Every chase of horse or drove 
was different; and once in many attempts they met 
with success. 

A favorite method originated by the Stewarts was 
to find a water hole frequented by the band of horses 
or the stallion wanted, and to build round this hole a 
corral with an opening for the horses to get in. Then 
the hunters would watch the trap at night, and if the 
horses went in to drink, a gate was closed across the 
opening. 

Another method of the Stewarts was to trail a 
coveted horse up on a mesa or highland, places which 
seldom had more than one trail of ascent and descent, 
and there block the escape, and cut lines of cedars, into 
which the quarry was run till captured. Still another 
method, discovered by accident, was to shoot a horse 
lightly in the neck and sting him. This last, called 
creasing, was seldom successful, and for that matter in 
29 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


any method ten times as many horses were killed as 
captured. 

Lin Slone helped the Stewarts in their own way, 
but he had no especial liking for their tricks. Per- 
haps a few remarkable captures of remarkable horses 
had spoiled Slone. He was always trying what the 
brothers claimed to be impossible. He was a fearless 
rider, but he had the fault of saving his mount, and 
to kill a wild horse was a tragedy for him. He would 
much rather have hunted alone, and he had been alone 
on the trail of the stallion Wildfire when the Stewarts 
had joined him. 

Lin Slone awoke next morning and rolled out of 
his blanket at his usual early hour. But he was not 
early enough to say good-by to the Stewarts. They 
were gone. 

The fact surprised him and somehow relieved him. 
They had left him more than his share of the outfit, 
and perhaps that was why they had slipped off before 
dawn. They knew him well enough to know that he 
would not have accepted it. Besides, perhaps they felt 
a little humiliation at abandoning a chase which he 
chose to keep up. Anyway, they were gone, appar- 
ently without breakfast. 

The morning was clear, cool, with the air dark like 
that before a storm, and in the east, over the steely 
wall of stone, shone a redness growing brighter. 

Slone looked away to the west, down the trail taken 
30 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


by his comrades, but he saw nothing moving against 
that cedar-dotted waste. 

“ Good-by,” he said, and he spoke as if he was say- 
ing good-by to more than comrades. 

“ I reckon I won’t see Sevier Village soon again — 
an’ maybe never,” he soliloquized. 

There was no one to regret him, unless it was old 
Mother Hall, who had been kind to him on those rare 
occasions when he got out of the wilderness. Still, it 
was with regret that he gazed away across the red 
valley to the west. Slone had no home. His father 
and mother had been lost in the massacre of a wagon 
train by Indians, and he had been one of the few 
saved and brought to Salt Lake. That had happened 
when he was ten years old. His life thereafter had 
been hard, and but for his sturdy Texas training he 
might not have survived. The last five years he had 
been a horse hunter in the wild uplands of Nevada and 
Utah. 

Slone turned his attention to the pack of supplies. 
The Stewarts had divided the flour and the parched 
corn equally, and unless he was greatly mistaken 
they had left him most of the coffee and all of the 
salt. 

“ Now I hold that decent of Bill an’ Abe,” said 
Slone, regretfully. “ But I could have got along with- 
out it better ’n they could.” 

Then he swiftly set about kindling a fire and getting 
a meal. In the midst of his task a sudden ruddy 
31 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


brightness fell around him. Lin Slone paused in his 
work to look up. 

The sun had risen over the eastern wall. 

“ Ah ! ” he said, and drew a deep breath. 

The cold, steely, darkling sweep of desert had been 
transformed. It was now a world of red earth and 
gold rocks and purple sage, with everywhere the end- 
less straggling green cedars. A breeze whipped in, 
making the fire roar softly. The sun felt warm on his 
cheek. And at the moment he heard the whistle of 
his horse. 

“ Good old Nagger ! ” he said. “ I shore won’t 
have to track you this morninV’ 

Presently he went off into the cedars to find Naggar 
and the mustang that he used to carry a pack. Nagger 
was grazing in a little open patch among the trees, but 
the pack horse was missing. Slone seemed to know 
in what direction to go to find the trail, for he came 
upon it very soon. The pack horse wore hobbles, but 
he belonged to the class that could cover a great deal 
of ground when hobbled. Slone did not expect the 
horse to go far, considering that the grass thereabouts 
was good. But in a wild-horse country it was not 
safe to give any horse a chance. The call of his wild 
brethren was irresistible. Slone, however, found the 
mustang standing quietly in a clump of cedars, and, 
removing the hobbles, he mounted and rode back to 
camp. Nagger caught sight of him and came at his 
call. 


32 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


This horse Nagger appeared as unique in his class 
as Slone was rare among riders. Nagger seemed of 
several colors, though black predominated. His coat 
was shaggy, almost woolly, like that of a sheep. He 
was huge, raw-boned, knotty, long of body and long 
of leg, with the head of a war charger. His build 
did not suggest speed. There appeared to be some- 
thing slow and ponderous about him, similar to an 
elephant, with the same suggestion of power and en- 
durance. 

Slone discarded the pack saddle and bags. The lat- 
ter were almost empty. He roped the tarpaulin on 
the back of the mustang, and, making a small bundle 
of his few supplies, he tied that to the tarpaulin. His 
blanket he used for a saddle blanket on Nagger. Of 
the utensils left by the Stewarts he chose a couple of 
small iron pans, with long handles. The rest he left. 
In his saddle bags he had a few extra horseshoes, 
some nails, bullets for his rifle, and a knife with a heavy 
blade. 

“ Not a rich outfit for a far country,” he mused. 
Slone did not talk very much, and when he did he ad- 
dressed Nagger and himself simultaneously. Evi- 
dently he expected a long chase, one from which he 
would not return, and light as his outfit was it would 
grow too heavy. 

Then he mounted and rode down the gradual slope, 
facing the valley and the black, bold, flat mountain to 
the southeast. Some few hundred yards from camp he 
33 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinize 
the ground. 

The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, 
hard sand. The hoof marks were large, almost oval, 
perfect in shape, and manifestly they were beautiful to 
Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and then 
he looked across the dotted red valley up to the vast 
ridgy steppes, toward the black plateau and beyond. 
It was the look that an Indian gives to a strange coun- 
try. Then Slone slipped off the saddle and knelt to 
scrutinize the horse tracks. A little sand had blown 
into the depressions, and some of it was wet and some 
of it was dry. He took his time about examining it, 
and he even tried gently blowing other sand into the 
tracks, to compare that with what was already there. 
Finally he stood up and addressed Nagger. 

“ Reckon we won’t have to argue with Abe an’ Bill 
this mornin’,” he said, with satisfaction. “ Wildfire 
made that track yesterday, before sunup.” 

Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a 
trot. The pack horse followed with an alacrity that 
showed he had no desire for loneliness. 

As straight as a bee line Wildfire had left a trail 
down into the floor of the valley. He had not stopped 
to graze, and he had not looked for water. Slone had 
hoped to find a water hole in one of the deep washes 
in the red earth, but if there had been any water there 
Wildfire would have scented it. He had not had a 
drink for three days that Slone knew of. And Nag- 
34 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


ger had not drunk for forty hours. Slone had a can- 
vas water bag hanging over the pommel, but it was a 
habit of his to deny himself, as far as possible, till his 
horse could drink also. Like an Indian, Slone ate and 
drank but little. 

It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the 
middle and bottom of that wide, flat valley. A net- 
work of washes cut up the whole center of it, and they 
were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these 
Slone had only to keep Wildfire’s trail. And it was 
proof of Nagger’s quality that he did not have to veer 
from the stallion’s course. 

It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck 
up, reflected from the sand. But it was a March sun, 
and no more than pleasant to Slone. The wind rose, 
however, and blew dust and sand in the faces of horse 
and rider. Except lizards Slone did not see any liv- 
ing things. 

Miles of low greasewood and sparse yellow sage 
led to the first almost imperceptible rise of the valley 
floor on that side. The distant cedars beckoned to 
Slone. He was not patient, because he was on the 
trail of Wildfire; but, nevertheless, the hours seemed 
short. 

Slone had no past to think about, and the future held 
nothing except a horse, and so his thoughts revolved 
the possibilities connected with this chase of Wildfire. 
The chase was hopeless in such country as he was 
traversing, and if Wildfire chose to roam around val- 
35 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


leys like this one Slone would fail utterly. But the 
stallion had long ago left his band of horses, and then, 
one by one his favorite consorts, and now he was alone, 
headed with unerring instinct for wild, untrammeled 
ranges. He had been used to the pure, cold water and 
the succulent grass of the cold desert uplands. As- 
suredly he would not tarry in such barren lands as these. 

For Slone an ever-present and growing fascination 
lay in Wildfire’s clear, sharply defined tracks. It was 
as if every hoof mark told him something. Once, far 
up the interminable ascent, he found on a ridge top 
tracks showing where Wildfire had halted and turned. 

“Ha, Nagger!” cried Slone, exultingly. “Look 
there! He’s begun facin’ about. He’s wonderin’ if 
we’re still after him. He’s worried. . . . But we’ll 
keep out of sight — a day behind.” 

When Slone reached the cedars the sun was low 
down in the west. He looked back across the fifty 
miles of valley to the colored cliffs and walls. He 
seemed to be above them now, and the cool air, with 
tang of cedar and juniper, strengthened the impression 
that he had climbed high. 

A mile or more ahead of him rose a gray cliff with 
breaks in it and a line of dark cedars or pinons on the 
level rims. He believed these breaks to be the mouths 
of canons, and so it turned out. Wildfire’s trail led 
into the mouth of a narrow canon with very steep and 
high walls. Nagger snorted his perception of water, 
and the mustang whistled. Wildfire’s tracks led to a 
36 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


point under the wall where a spring gushed forth. 
There were mountain lion and deer tracks also, as well 
as those of smaller game. 

Slone made camp here. The mustang was tired. 
But Nagger, upon taking a long drink, rolled in the 
grass as if he had just begun the trip. After eating, 
Slone took his rifle and went out to look for deer. 
But there appeared to be none at hand. He came 
across many lion tracks, and saw, with apprehension, 
where one had taken Wildfire’s trail. Wildfire had 
grazed up the canon, keeping on and on, and he was 
likely to go miles in a night. Slone reflected that as 
small as were his own chances of getting Wildfire, they 
were still better than those of a mountain lion. 
Wildfire was the most cunning of all animals — a wild 
stallion; his speed and endurance were incomparable; 
his scent as keen as those animals that relied wholly 
upon scent to warn them of danger; and as for sight, 
it was Slone’s belief that no hoofed creature, except the 
mountain sheep used to high altitudes, could see as far 
as a wild horse. 

It bothered Slone a little that he was getting into a 
lion country. Nagger showed nervousness, something 
unusual for him. Slone tied both horses with long 
halters and stationed them on patches of thick grass. 
Then he put a cedar stump on the fire and went to 
sleep. Upon awakening and going to the spring he 
was somewhat chagrined to see that deer had come 
down to drink early. Evidently they were numerous. 
37 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


A lion country was always a deer country, for the 
lions followed the deer. 

Slone was packed and saddled and on his way be- 
fore the sun reddened the canon wall. He walked the 
horses. From time to time he saw signs of Wildfire’s 
consistent progress. The canon narrowed and the 
walls grew lower and the grass increased. There was 
a decided ascent all the time. Slone could find no evi- 
dence that the canon had ever been traveled by hunters 
or Indians. The day was pleasant and warm and still. 
Every once in a while a little breath of wind would 
bring a fragrance of cedar and pinon, and a sweet hint 
of pine and sage. At every turn he looked ahead, ex- 
pecting to see the green of pine and the gray of sage. 
Toward the middle of the afternoon, coming to a place 
where Wildfire had taken to a trot, he put Nagger to 
that gait, and by sundown had worked up to where 
the canon was only a shallow ravine. And finally it 
turned once more, to lose itself in a level where strag- 
gling pines stood high above the cedars, and great, 
dark-green silver spruces stood above the pines. And 
here were patches of sage, fresh and pungent, and long 
reaches of bleached grass. It was the edge of a for- 
est. Wildfire’s trail went on. Slone came at length 
to a group of pines, and here he found the remains of 
a camp fire, and some flint arrow-heads. Indians had 
been in there, probably having come from the opposite 
direction to Slone’s. This encouraged him, for where 
Indians could hunt so could he. Soon he was entering 

38 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


a forest where cedars and pinons and pines began to 
grow thickly. Presently he came upon a faintly de- 
fined trail, just a dim, dark line even to an experienced 
eye. But it was a trail, and Wildfire had taken it. 

Slone halted for the night. The air was cold. And 
the dampness of it gave him an idea there were snow 
banks somewhere not far distant. The dew was al- 
ready heavy on the grass. He hobbled the horses and 
put a bell on Nagger. A bell might frighten lions that 
had never heard one. Then he built a fire and cooked 
his meal. 

It had been long since he had camped high up among 
the pines. The sough of the wind pleased him, like 
music. There had begun to be prospects of pleasant 
experience along with the toil of chasing Wildfire. 
He was entering new and strange and beautiful coun- 
try. How far might the chase take him ? He did not 
care. He was not sleepy, but even if he had been it 
developed that he must wait till the coyotes ceased 
their barking round his camp fire. They came so close 
that he saw their gray shadows in the gloom. But 
presently they wearied of yelping at him and went 
away. After that the silence, broken only by the wind 
as it roared and lulled, seemed beautiful to Slone. He 
lost completely that sense of vague regret which had 
remained with him, and he forgot the Stewarts. And 
suddenly he felt absolutely free, alone, with nothing 
behind to remember, with wild, thrilling, nameless life 
before him. Just then the long mourn of a timber 
39 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


wolf wailed in with the wind. Seldom had he heard 
the cry of one of those night wanderers. There was 
nothing like it — no sound like it to fix in the lone 
camper’s heart the great solitude and the wild. 


ii 

In the early morning when all was gray and the big, 
dark pines were shadowy specters, Slone was awaken- 
ed by the cold. His hands were so numb that he had 
difficulty starting a fire. He stood over the blaze, 
warming them. The air was nipping, clear and thin, 
and sweet with frosty fragrance. 

Daylight came while he was in the midst of his 
morning meal. A white frost covered the ground and 
crackled under his feet as he went out to bring in the 
horses. He saw fresh deer tracks. Then he went 
back to camp for his rifle. Keeping a sharp lookout 
for game, he continued his search for the horses. 

The forest was open and parklike. There were no 
fallen trees or evidences of fire. Presently he came to 
a wide glade in the midst of which Nagger and the 
pack mustang ‘were gracing with a herd of deer. The 
size of the latter amazed Slone. The deer he had 
hunted back on the Sevier range were much smaller 
than these. Evidently these were mule deer, closely 
allied to the elk. They were so tame they stood facing 
him curiously, with long ears erect. It was sheer mur- 
40 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


der to kill a deer standing and watching like that, but 
Slone was out of meat and hungry and facing a long, 
hard trip. He shot a buck, which leaped spasmodically 
away, trying to follow the herd, and fell at the edge of 
the glade. Slone cut out a haunch, and then, catching 
the horses, he returned to camp, where he packed and 
saddled, and at once rode out on the dim trail. 

The wilderness of the country he was entering was 
evident in the fact that as he passed the glade where 
he had shot the deer a few minutes before, there were 
coyotes quarreling over the carcass. 

Slone could see ahead and on each side several hun- 
dred yards, and presently he ascertained that the forest 
floor was not so level as he had supposed. He had en- 
tered a valley or was traversing a wide, gently sloping 
pass. He went through thickets of juniper, and had 
to go around clumps of quaking asp. The pines grew 
larger and farther apart. Cedars and pinons had been 
left behind, and he had met with no silver spruces after 
leaving camp. Probably that point was the height of 
a divide. There were banks of snow in some of the 
hollows on the north side. Evidently the snow had 
very recently melted, and it was evident also that the 
depth of snow through here had been fully ten feet, 
judging from the mutilation of the juniper trees where 
the deer, standing on the hard, frozen crust, had 
browsed upon the branches. 

The quiet of the forest thrilled Slone. And the only 
movement was the occasional gray flash of a deer or 
4i 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


coyote across a glade. No birds of any species crossed 
Slone’s sight. He came, presently, upon a lion track 
in the trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew 
curious about it, seeing how it held, as he was holding, 
to Wildfire’s tracks. After a mile or so he made sure 
the lion had been trailing the stallion, and for a second 
he felt a cold contraction of his heart. Already he 
loved Wildfire, and by virtue of all this toil of travel 
considered the wild horse his property. 

“ No lion could ever get close to Wildfire,” he solilo- 
quized, with a short laugh. Of that he was absolutely 
certain. 

The sun rose, melting the frost, and a breath of 
warm air, laden with the scent of pine, moved heavily 
under the huge, yellow trees. Slone passed a point 
where the remains of an old camp fire and a pile of deer 
antlers were further proof that Indians visited this 
plateau to hunt. From this camp broader, more deeply 
defined trails led away to the south and east. Slone 
kept to the east trail, in which Wildfire’s tracks and 
those of the lion showed clearly. It was about the 
middle of the forenoon when the tracks of the stallion 
and lion left the trail to lead up a little draw where grass 
grew thick. Slone followed, reading the signs of 
Wildfire’s progress, and the action of his pursuer, as 
well as if he had seen them. Here the stallion had 
plowed into a snow bank, eating a hole two feet deep ; 
then he had grazed around a little; then on and on; 
there his splendid tracks were deep in the soft earth. 

42 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


Slone knew what to expect when the track of the lion 
veered from those of the horse, and he followed the 
lion tracks. The ground was soft from the late melt- 
ing of snow, and Nagger sunk deep. The lion left a 
plain track. Here he stole steadily along ; there he left 
many tracks at a point where he might have halted to 
make sure of his scent. He was circling on the trail 
of the stallion, with cunning intent of ambush. The 
end of this slow, careful stalk of the lion, as told in his 
tracks, came upon the edge of a knoll where he had 
crouched to watch and wait. From this perch he had 
made a magnificent spring — Slone estimating it to be 
forty feet — but he had missed the stallion. There 
were Wildfire’s tracks again, slow and short, and then 
deep and sharp where in the impetus of fright he had 
sprung out of reach. A second leap of the lion, and 
then lessening bounds, and finally an abrupt turn from 
Wildfire’s trail told the futility of that stalk. Slone 
made certain that Wildfire was so keen that as he 
grazed along he had kept to open ground. 

Wildfire had run for a mile, then slowed down to a 
trot, and he had circled to get back to the trail he had 
left. Slone believed the horse was just so intelligent. 
At any rate, Wildfire struck the trail again, and turned 
at right angles to follow it. 

Here the forest floor appeared perfectly level. 
Patches of snow became frequent, and larger as Slone 
went on. At length the patches closed up, and soon 
extended as far as he could see. It was soft, affording 
43 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


difficult travel. Slone crossed hundreds of deer tracks, 
and the trail he was on evidently became a deer runway. 

Presently, far down one of the aisles between the 
great pines Slone saw what appeared to be a yellow 
cliff, far away. It puzzled him. And as he went on 
he received the impression that the forest dropped out 
of sight ahead. Then the trees grew thicker, obstruct- 
ing his view. Presently the trail became soggy and he 
had to help his horse. The mustang floundered in the 
soft snow and earth. Cedars and pinons appeared 
again, making travel still more laborious. 

All at once there came to Slone a strange conscious- 
ness of light and wind and space and void. On the 
instant his horse halted with a snort. Slone quickly 
looked up. Had he come to the end of the world ? An 
abyss, a canon, yawned beneath him, beyond all com- 
parison in its greatness. His keen eye, educated to 
desert distance and dimension swept down and across, 
taking in the tremendous truth, before it staggered his 
comprehension. But a second sweeping glance, slower, 
becoming intoxicated with what it beheld, saw gigantic 
cliff steppes and yellow slopes dotted with cedars, lead- 
ing down to clefts filled with purple smoke, and these 
led on and on to a ragged red world of rock, bare, shin- 
ing, bold, uplifted in mesa, dome, peak, and crag, clear 
and strange in the morning light, still and sleeping like 
death. 

This, then, was the great canon, which had seemed 
like a hunter’s fable rather than truth. Slone’s sight 
44 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


dimmed, blurring the spectacle, and he found that his 
eyes had filled with tears. He wiped them away and 
looked again and again, until he was confounded by 
the vastness and grandeur and the vague sadness of the 
scene. Nothing he had ever looked at had affected 
him like this canon, although the Stewarts had tried 
to prepare him for it. 

It was the horse hunter’s passion that reminded him 
of his pursuit > The deer trail led down through a 
break in the wall. Only a few rods of it could be seen. 
This trail was passable, even though choked with snow. 
But the depth beyond this wall seemed to fascinate 
Slone and hold him back, used as he was to desert 
trails. Then the clean mark of Wildfire’s hoof brought 
back the old thrill. 

“ This place fits you, Wildfire,” muttered Slone, dis- 
mounting. 

He started down, leading Nagger. The mustang 
followed. Slone kept to the wall side of the trail, 
fearing the horses might slip. The snow held firmly 
at first and Slone had no trouble. The gap in the rim 
rock widened to a slope thickly grown over with cedars 
and pinons and manzanita. This growth made the 
descent more laborious, yet afforded means at least for 
Slone to go down with less danger. There was no 
stopping. Once started, the horses had to keep on. 
Slone saw the impossibility of ever climbing out while 
that snow was there. The trail zigzagged down and 
down. Very soon the yellow wall hung tremendously 
45 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 

over him, straight up. The snow became thinner and 
softer. The horses began to slip. They slid on their 
haunches. Fortunately the slope grew less steep, and 
Slone could see below where it reached out to compar- 
atively level ground. Still, a mishap might yet occur. 
Slone kept as close to Nagger as possible, helping him 
whenever he could do it. The mustang slipped, rolled 
over, and then slipped past Slone, went down the slope 
to bring up in a cedar. Slone worked down to him and 
extricated him. Then the huge Nagger began to slide. 
Snow and loose rock slid with him, and so did Slone. 
The little avalanche stopped of its own accord, and 
then Slone dragged Nagger on down and down, pres- 
ently to come to the end of the steep descent. Slone 
looked up to see that he had made short work of a 
thousand-foot slope. Here cedars and pinons grew 
thickly enough to make a forest. The snow thinned 
out to patches, and then failed. But the going re- 
mained bad for a while as the horses sank deep in a 
soft red earth. This eventually grew more solid and 
finally dry. Slone worked out of the cedars to what 
appeared a grassy plateau inclosed by the great green 
and white slope with its yellow wall overhanging, and 
distant mesas and cliffs. Here his view was restricted. 
He was down on the first bench of the great canon. 
And there was the deer trail, a well-worn path keeping 
to the edge of the slope. Slone came to a deep cut in 
the earth, and the trail headed it, where it began at the 
last descent of the slope. It was the source of a 
46 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 

canon. He could look down to see the bare, worn 
rock, and a hundred yards from where he stood the 
earth was washed from its rims and it began to show 
depth and something of that ragged outline which told 
of violence of flood. The trail headed many canons 
like this, all running down across this bench, disap- 
pearing, dropping invisibly. The trail swung to the 
left under the great slope, and then presently it climbed 
to a higher bench. Here were brush and grass and 
huge patches of sage, so pungent that it stung Slone’s 
nostrils. Then he went down again, this time to come 
to a clear brook lined by willows. Here the horses 
drank long and Slone refreshed himself. The sun had 
grown hot. There was fragrance of flowers he could 
not see and a low murmur of a waterfall that was like- 
wise invisible. For most of the time his view was 
shut off, but occasionally he reached a point where 
through some break he saw towers gleaming red in the 
sun. A strange place, a place of silence, and smoky 
veils in the distance. Time passed swiftly. Toward 
the waning of the afternoon he began to climb what 
appeared to be a saddle of land, connecting the canon 
wall on the left with a great plateau, gold-rimmed and 
pine-fringed, rising more and more in his way as he 
advanced. At sunset Slone was more shut in than for 
several hours. He could tell the time was sunset by the 
golden light on the cliff wall again overhanging him. 
The slope was gradual up to this pass to the saddle, 
and upon coming to a spring and the first pine trees, he 
4 7 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


decided to halt for camp. The mustang was almost 
exhausted. 

Thereupon he hobbled the horses in the luxuriant 
grass round the spring, and then unrolled his pack. 
Once as dusk came stealing down, while he was eating 
his meal, Nagger whistled in fright. Slone saw a 
gray, pantherish form gliding away into the shadows. 
He took a quick shot at it, but missed. 

“ It’s a lion country, all right,” he said. And then 
he set about building a big fire on the other side of the 
grassy plot, so as to have the horses between fires. He 
cut all the venison into thin strips, and spent an hour 
roasting them. Then he lay down to rest, and he 
said: “ Wonder where Wildfire is to-night? Am I 
closer to him? Where’s he headin’ for? ” 

The night was warm and still. It was black near 
the huge cliff, and overhead velvety blue, with stars 
of white fire. It seemed to him that he had become 
more thoughtful and observing of the aspects of his 
wild environment, and he felt a welcome consciousness 
of loneliness. Then sleep came to him and the night 
seemed short. In the gray dawn he arose refreshed. 

The horses were restive. Nagger snorted a wel- 
come. Evidently they had passed an uneasy night. 
Slone found lion tracks at the spring and in sandy 
places. Presently he was on his way up to the notch 
between the great wall and the plateau. A growth of 
thick scrub oak made travel difficult. It had not ap- 
peared far up to that saddle, but it was far. There 
48 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


were straggling pine trees and huge rocks that ob- 
structed his gaze. But once up he saw that the saddle 
was only a narrow ridge, curved to slope up on both 
sides. 

Straight before Slone and under him opened the 
canon, blazing and glorious along the peaks and ram- 
parts, where the rising sun struck, misty and smoky and 
shadowy down in those mysterious depths. 

It took an effort not to keep on gazing. But Slone 
turned to the grim business of his pursuit. The trail 
he saw leading down had been made by Indians. It 
was used probably once a year by them; and also by 
wild animals, and it was exceedingly steep and rough. 
Wildfire had paced to and fro along the narrow ridge 
of that saddle, making many tracks, before he had 
headed down again. Slone imagined that the great 
stallion had been daunted by the tremendous chasm, 
but had finally faced it, meaning to put this obstacle 
between him and hi§ pursuers. It never occurred to 
Slone to attribute less intelligence to Wildfire than 
that. So, dismounting, Slone took Nagger’s bridle and 
started down. The mustang with the pack was re- 
luctant. He snorted and whistled and pawed the 
earth. But he would not be left alone, so he followed. 

The trail led down under cedars that fringed a 
precipice. Slone was aware of this without looking. 
He attended only to the trail and to his horse. Only 
an Indian could have picked out that course, and it was 
cruel to put a horse to it. But Nagger was powerful, 
49 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


sure-footed, and he would go anywhere that Slone led 
him. Gradually Slone worked down and away from 
the bulging rim wall. It was hard, rough work, and 
risky because it could not be accomplished slowly. 
Brush and rocks, loose shale and weathered slope, long, 
dusty inclines of yellow earth, and jumbles of stone — 
these made bad going for miles of slow, zigzag trail 
down out of the cedars. Then the trail entered what 
appeared to be a ravine. 

That ravine became a canon. At its head it was a 
dry wash, full of gravel and rocks. It began to cut 
deep into the bowels of the earth. It shut out sight of 
the surrounding walls and peaks. Water appeared 
from under a cliff and, augmented by other springs, be- 
came a brook. Hot, dry, and barren at its beginning, 
this cleft became cool and shady and luxuriant with 
grass and flowers and amber moss with silver blossoms. 
The rocks had changed color from yellow to deep red. 
Four hours of turning and twisting, endlessly down and 
down, over bowlders and banks and every conceivable 
roughness of earth and rock, finished the pack mustang; 
and Slone mercifully left him in a long reach of canon 
where grass and water never failed. In this place 
Slone halted for the noon hour, letting Nagger have his 
fill of the rich grazing. Nagger’s three days in grassy 
upland, despite the continuous travel by day, had im- 
proved him. He looked fat, and Slone had not yet 
caught the horse resting. Nagger was iron to endure. 
Here Slone left all the outfit except what was on his 
50 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


saddle, and the sack containing the few pounds of 
meat and supplies, and the two utensils. This sack 
he tied on the back of his saddle, and resumed his 
journey. 

Presently he came to a place where Wildfire had 
doubled on his trail and had turned up a side canon. 
The climb out was hard on Slone, if not on Nagger. 
Once up, Slone found himself upon a wide, barren 
plateau of glaring red rock and clumps of greasewood 
and cactus. The plateau was miles wide, shut in by 
great walls and mesas of colored rock. The afternoon 
sun beat down fiercely. A blast of wind, as if from a 
furnace, swept across the plateau, and it was laden with 
red dust. Slone walked here, where he could have 
ridden. And he made several miles of up-and-down 
progress over this rough plateau. The great walls of 
the opposite side of the canon loomed appreciably 
closer. What, Slone wondered, was at the bottom of 
this rent in the earth? The great desert river was 
down there, of course, but he knew nothing of it. 
Would that turn back Wildfire ? Slone thought grimly 
how he had always claimed Nagger to be part fish and 
part bird. Wildfire was not going to escape. 

By and by only isolated mescal plants with long, 
yellow-plumed spears broke the bare monotony of the 
plateau. And Slone passed from red sand and gravel 
to a red, soft shale, and from that to hard, red rock. 
Here Wildfire’s tracks were lost, the first time in seven 
weeks. But Slone had his direction down that plateau 
5i 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


with the cleavage lines of canons to right and left. At 
times Slone found a vestige of the old Indian trail, 
and this made him doubly sure of being right. He did 
not need to have Wildfire’s tracks. He let Nagger 
pick the way, and the horse made no mistake in finding 
the line of least resistance. But that grew harder and 
harder. This bare rock, like a file, would soon wear 
Wildfire’s hoofs thin. And Slone rejoiced. Perhaps 
somewhere down in this awful chasm he and Nagger 
would have it out with the stallion. Slone began to 
look far ahead, beginning to believe that he might see 
Wildfire. Twice he had seen Wildfire, but only at a 
distance. Then he had resembled a running streak of 
fire, whence his name, which Slone had given him. 

This bare region of rock began to be cut up into gul- 
lies. It was necessary to head them or to climb in and 
out. Miles of travel really meant little progress 
straight ahead. But Slone kept on. He was hot and 
Nagger was hot, and that made hard work easier. 
Sometimes on the wind came a low thunder. Was it a 
storm or an avalanche slipping or falling water? He 
could not tell. The sound was significant and haunt- 
ing. 

Of one thing he was sure — that he could not have 
found his back trail. But he divined he was never to 
retrace his steps on this journey. The stretch of 
broken plateau before him grew wilder and bolder of 
outline, darker in color, weirder in aspect and progress 
across it grew slower, more dangerous. There were 
52 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


many places Nagger should not have been put to — 
where a slip meant a broken leg. But Slone could not 
turn back. And something besides an indomitable 
spirit kept him going. Again the sound resembling 
thunder assailed his ears, louder this time. The pla- 
teau appeared to be ending in a series of great capes 
or promontories. Slone feared he would soon come 
out upon a promontory from which he might see the 
impossibility of further travel. He felt relieved down 
in the gullies, where he could not see far. He climbed 
out of one, presently, from which there extended a 
narrow ledge with a slant too perilous for any horse. 
He stepped out upon that with far less confidence than 
Nagger. To the right was a bulge of low wall, and 
a few feet to the left a dark precipice. The trail here 
was faintly outlined, and it was six inches wide and 
slanting as well. It seemed endless to Slone, that 
ledge. He looked only down at his feet and listened 
to Nagger’s steps. The big horse trod carefully, but 
naturally, and he did not slip. That ledge extended in 
a long curve, turning slowly away from the precipice, 
and ascending a little at the further end. Slone drew 
a deep breath of relief when he led Nagger up on level 
rock. 

Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, 
as if he had been struck. The wild, shrill, high-pitched, 
piercing whistle of a stallion! Nagger neighed a blast 
in reply and pounded the rock with his iron-shod hoofs. 
With a thrill Slone looked ahead. 

53 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


There, some few hundred yards distant, on a prom- 
ontory, stood a red horse. 

“ It’s Wildfire!” breathed Slone, tensely. 

He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was 
dreaming. But as Nagger stamped and snorted de- 
fiance Slone looked with fixed and keen gaze, and 
knew that beautiful picture was no lie. 

Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild 
in the wind, was like a whipping, black-streaked flame. 
Silhouetted there against that canon background he 
seemed gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge into 
fiery depths. He was looking back over his shoulder, 
his head very high, and every line of him was instinct 
with wildness. Again he sent out that shrill, air- 
splitting whistle. Slone understood it to be a clarion 
call to Nagger. If Nagger had been alone Wildfire 
would have killed him. The red stallion was a killer 
of horses. All over the Utah ranges he had left the 
trail of a murderer. Nagger understood this, too, for 
he whistled back in rage and terror. It took an iron 
arm to hold him. Then Wildfire plunged, apparently 
down, and vanished from Slone’s sight. 

Slone hurried onward, to be blocked by a huge 
crack in the rocky plateau. This he had to h^ad. 
And then another and like obstacle checked his haste 
to reach that promontory. He was forced to go more 
slowly. Wildfire had been close only as to sight. And 
this was the great canon that dwarfed distance and 
magnified proximity. Climbing down and up, toiling 
54 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


on, he at last learned patience. He had seen Wildfire 
at close range. That was enough. So he plodded on, 
once more returning to careful regard of Nagger. It 
took an hour of work to reach the point where Wildfire 
had disappeared. 

A promontory indeed it was, overhanging a valley 
a thousand feet below. A white torrent of a stream 
wound through it. There were lines of green cotton- 
woods following the winding course. Then Slone saw 
Wildfire slowly crossing the flat toward the stream. 
He had gone down that cliff, which to Slone looked 
perpendicular. 

Wildfire appeared to be walking lame. Slone, mak- 
ing sure of this, suffered a pang. Then, when the 
significance of such lameness dawned upon him he 
whooped his wild joy and waved his hat. The red 
stallion must have heard, for he looked up. Then he 
went on again and waded into the stream, where he 
drank long. When he started to cross, the swift cur- 
rent drove hirri back in several places. The water 
wreathed white around him. But evidently it was not 
deep, arid finally he crossed. From the other side he 
looked up again at Nagger and Slone, and, going on, 
he soon was out of sight in the* cottonwoods. 

“ How to get down ! ” muttered Slone. 

There was a. break in* the cliff wall, a bare stone slant 
where horses had gone down and come up. That was 
enough for Slone to know. He would have attempted 
the descent if he were sure no other horse but Wildfire 
55 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


had ever gone down there. But Slone’s hair began to 
rise stiff on his head. A horse like Wildfire, and 
mountain sheep and Indian ponies, were all very dif- 
ferent from Nagger. The chances were against Nag- 
ger. 

“ Come on, old boy. If I can do it, you can,” he 
said. 

Slone had never seen a trail as perilous as this. He 
was afraid for his horse. A slip there meant death. 
The way Nagger, trembled in every muscle showed his 
feelings. But he never flinched. He would follow 
Slone anywhere, providing Slone rode him of led him. 
And here, as riding was impossible, Slone went before. 
If the horse slipped there would be a double tragedy, 
for Nagger would knock his mastef off the cliff. 
Slone set his teeth and stepped down. He did not let 
Nagger see his fear. He was taking thd greatest risk 
he had ever fun. 

The break in the wall led to a ledge, and the ledge 
dropped from step to step, and these had bare, slippery 
slants between. %N agger was splendid on a bad trail. 
He had methods, peculiar to his huge build and great 
weight. He crashed down over the stone steps, both 
front hoofs at once. The slants he slid down on his 
haunches with his forelegs stiff and the iron shoes 
scraping. He snorted and heaved and grew wet with 
sweat. He tossed his head at some of the places. But 
he never hesitated and it was impossible for him to go 
slowly. Whenever Slone came to corrugated stretches 

56 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


in the trail he felt grateful. But these were few. The 
rock was like smooth red iron. Slone had never 
seen such hard rock. It took him long to realize that 
it was marble. His heart seemed a tense, painful knot 
in his breast, as if it could not beat, holding back in the 
strained suspense. But Nagger never jerked on the 
bridle. He never faltered. Many times he slipped, 
often with both front feet, but never with all four feet. 
So he did not fall. And the red wall began to loom 
above Sloan. Then suddenly he seemed brought to a 
point where it was impossible to descend. It was a 
round bulge, slanting fearfully, with only a few rough 
surfaces to hold a foot. Wildfire had left a broad, 
clear-swept mark at that place, and red hairs on some 
of the sharp points. He had slid down. Below was 
an offset that fortunately prevented further sliding. 
Slone started to walk down this place, but when Nag- 
ger began to slide Slone had to let go the bridle and 
jump. Both he and the horse landed safely. Luck 
was with them. And they went on, down and down, 
to reach the base of the great wall, scraped and ex- 
hausted, wet with sweat, but unhurt. As Slone gazed 
upward he felt the impossibility of believing what he 
knew to be true. He hugged and petted the horse. 
Then he led on to the roaring stream. 

It was green water white with foam. Slone waded 
in and found the water cool and shallow and very 
swift. He had to hold to Nagger to keep from being 
swept downstream. They crossed in safety. There 
57 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


in the sand showed Wildfire’s tracks. And here were 
signs of another Indian camp, half a year old. 

The shade of the cottonwoods was pleasant. Slone 
found this valley oppressively hot. There was no wind 
and the sand blistered his feet through his boots. 
Wildfire held to the Indian trail that had guided him 
down into this wilderness of worn rock. And that 
trail crossed the stream at every turn of the twisting, 
narrow valley. Slone enjoyed getting into the water. 
He hung his gun over the pommel and let the water roll 
him. A dozen times he and Nagger forded the rushing 
torrent. Then they came to a boxlike closing of the 
valley to canon walls, and here the trail evidently fol- 
lowed the stream bed. There was no other way. 
Slone waded in, and stumbled, rolled, and floated ahead 
of the sturdy horse. Nagger was wet to his breast, 
but he did not fall. This gulch seemed full of a hol- 
low rushing roar. It opened out into a wide valley. 
And Wildfire’s tracks took to the left side and began 
to climb the slope. 

Here the traveling was good, considering what had 
been passed. Once up out of the valley floor Slone 
saw Wildfire far ahead, high on the slope. He did 
not appear to be limping, but he was not going fast. 
Slone watched as he climbed. What and where would 
be the end of this chase? 

Sometimes Wildfire was plain in his sight for a mo- 
ment, but usually he was hidden by rocks. The slope 
was one great talus, a jumble of weathered rock, fallen 

58 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


from what appeared a mountain of red and yellow 
wall. Here the heat of the sun fell upon him like fire. 
The rocks were so hot Slone could not touch them with 
bare hand. The close of the afternoon was approach- 
ing, and this slope was interminably long. Still, it was 
not steep, and the trail was good. 

At last from the height of slope Wildfire appeared, 
looking back and down. Then he was gone. Slone 
plodded upward. Long before he reached that sum- 
mit he heard the dull rumble of the river. It grew to 
be a roar, yet it seemed distant. Would the great des- 
ert river stop Wildfire in his flight? Slone doubted it. 
He surmounted the ridge, to find the canon opening in 
a tremendous gap, and to see down, far down, a glitter- 
ing, sun-blasted slope merging into a deep, black gulch 
where a red river swept and chafed and roared. 

Somehow the river was what he had expected to 
see. A force that had cut and ground this canon could 
have been nothing but a river like that. The trail led 
down, and Slone had no doubt that it crossed the river 
and led up out of the canon. He wanted to stay there 
and gaze endlessly and listen. At length he began 
the descent. As he proceeded it seemed that the roar 
of the river lessened. He could not understand why 
this was so. It took half an hour to reach the last 
level, a ghastly, black, and iron-ribbed canon bed, with 
the river splitting it. He had not had a glimpse of 
Wildfire on this side of the divide, but he found his 
tracks, and they led down off the last level, through a 

59 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 

notch in the black bank of marble to a sand bar and the 
river. 

Wildfire had walked straight off the sand into the 
water. Slone studied the river and shore. The water 
ran slow, heavily, in sluggish eddies. From far up 
the canon came the roar of a rapid, and from below 
the roar of another, heavier and closer. The river ap- 
peared tremendous, in ways Slone felt rather than 
realized, yet it was not swift. Studying the black, 
rough wall of rock above him, he saw marks where the 
river had been sixty feet higher than where he stood 
on the sand. It was low, then. How lucky for him 
that he had gotten there before flood season ! He be- 
lieved Wildfire had crossed easily, and he knew Nagger 
could make it. Then he piled and tied his supplies 
and weapons high on the saddle, to keep them dry, and 
looked for a place to take to the water. 

Wildfire had sunk deep before reaching the edge. 
Manifestly he had lunged the last few feet. Slone 
found a better place, and waded in, urging Nagger. 
The big horse plunged, almost going under, and began 
to swim. Slone kept upstream beside him. He found, 
presently, that the water was thick and made him 
tired, so it was necessary to grasp a stirrup and be 
towed. The river appeared only a few hundred feet 
wide, but probably it was wider than it looked. 
Nagger labored heavily near the opposite shore; still, 
he landed safely upon a rocky bank. There were 
patches of sand in which Wildfire’s tracks showed so 
60 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 

fresh that the water had not yet dried out of 
them. 

Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb 
out of that split in the rock. However, Wildfire had 
found an easy ascent. On this side of the canon the 
bare rock did not predominate. A clear trail led up 
a dusty, gravelly slope, upon which scant greasewood 
and cactus appeared. Half an hour’s climbing brought 
Slone to where he could see that he was entering a 
vast valley, sloping up and narrowing to a notch in 
the dark cliffs, above which towered the great red wall 
and about that the slopes of cedar and the yellow 
rim rock. 

And scarcely a mile distant, bright in the westering 
sunlight, shone the red stallion, moving slowly. 

Slone pressed on steadily. Just before dark he came 
to an ideal spot to camp. The valley had closed up, 
so that the lofty walls cast shadows that met. A 
clump of cottonwoods surrounding a spring, abundance 
of rich grass, willows and flowers lining the banks, 
formed an oasis in the bare valley. Slone was tired 
out from the day of ceaseless toil down and up, and 
he could scarcely keep his eyes open. But he tried to 
stay awake. The dead silence of the valley, the dry 
fragrance, the dreaming walls, the advent of night low 
down, when up on the ramparts the last red rays of 
the sun lingered, the strange loneliness — these were 
sweet and comforting to him. 

And that night’s sleep was as a moment. He opened 
61 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


his eyes to see the crags and towers and peaks and 
domes, and the lofty walls of that vast, broken chaos 
of canons across the river. They were now emerging 
from the misty gray of dawn, growing pink and lilac 
and purple under the rising sun. 

He arose and set about his few tasks, which, being 
soon finished, allowed him an early start. 

Wildfire had grazed along no more than a mile in the 
lead. Slone looked eagerly up the narrowing canon, 
but he was not rewarded by a sight of the stallion. As 
he progressed up a gradually ascending trail he became 
aware of the fact that the notch he had long looked up 
to was where the great red walls closed in and almost 
met. And the trail zigzagged up this narrow vent, so 
steep that only a few steps could be taken without rest. 
Slone toiled up for an hour — an age — till he was 
wet, burning, choked, with a great weight on his chest. 
Yet still he was only halfway up that awful break be- 
tween the walls. Sometimes he could have tossed a 
stone down upon a part of the trail, only a few rods 
below, yet many, many weary steps of actual toil. As 
he got farther up the notch widened. What had been 
scarcely visible from the valley below was now colossal 
in actual dimensions. The trail was like a twisted 
mile of thread between two bulging mountain walls 
leaning their ledges and fronts over this tilted pass. 

Slone rested often. Nagger appreciated this and 
heaved gratefully at every halt. In this monotonous 
toil Slone' forgot the zest of his pursuit. And when 
62 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


Nagger suddenly snorted in fright Slone was not pre- 
pared for what he saw. 

Above him ran a low, red wall, around which evi- 
dently the trail led. At the curve, which was a prom- 
ontory, scarcely a hundred feet in an air line above him, 
he saw something red moving, bobbing, coming out 
into view. It was a horse. 

Wildfire — no farther away than the length of three 
lassos ! 

There he stood looking down. He fulfilled all of 
Slone’s dreams. Only he was bigger. But he was so 
magnificently proportioned that he did not seem heavy. 
His coat was shaggy and red, It was not glossy. 
The color was what made him shine. His mane was 
like a crest, mounting, then falling low. Slone had 
never seen so much muscle on a horse. Yet his outline 
was graceful, beautiful. The head was indeed that of 
the wildest of all wild creatures — a stallion born 
wild — and it was beautiful, savage, splendid, every- 
thing but noble. Slone thought that if a horse could 
express hate, surely Wildfire did then. It was certain 
that he did express curiosity and fury. 

Slone shook a gantleted fist at the stallion, as if the 
horse were human. That was a natural action for a 
rider of his kind. Wildfire turned away, showed 
bright against the dark background, and then disap- 
peared. 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


hi 

That was the last Slone saw of Wildfire for three 
days. 

It took all of this day to climb out of the canon. 
The second was a slow march of thirty miles into a 
scrub cedar and pinon forest, through which the great 
red and yellow walls of the canon could be seen. That 
night Slone found a water hole in a rocky pocket and a 
little grass for Nagger. The third day’s travel con- 
sisted of forty miles or more through level pine forest, 
dry and odorous, but lacking the freshness and beauty 
of the forest on the north side of the canon. On this 
south side a strange feature was that all the waier, 
when there was any, ran away from the rim. Slone 
camped this night at a muddy pond in the woods, where 
Wildfire’s tracks showed plainly. 

On the following day Slone rode out of the forest 
into a country of scanty cedars, bleached and stunted, 
and out of this to the edge of a plateau, from which 
the shimmering desert flung its vast and desolate dis- 
tances, forbidding and menacing. This was not the 
desert upland country of Utah, but a naked and bony 
world of colored rock and sand — a painted desert of 
heat and wind and flying sand and waterless wastes and 
barren ranges. But it did not daunt Slone. For far 
down on the bare, billowing ridges moved a red speck, 

64 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


at a snail’s pace, a slowly moving dot of color which 
was Wildfire. 

On open ground like this, Nagger, carrying two hun- 
dred and fifty pounds, showed his wonderful quality. 
He did not mind the heat nor the sand nor the glare 
nor the distance nor his burden. He did not tire. He 
was an engine of tremendous power. 

Slone gained upon Wildfire, and toward evening of 
that day he reached to within half a mile of the stallion. 
And he chose to keep that far behind. That night he 
camped where there was dry grass, but no water. 

Next day he followed Wildfire down and down, over 
the endless swell of rolling red ridges, bare of all but 
bleached white grass and meager greasewood, always 
descending in the face of that painted desert of bold 
and ragged steppes. Slone made fifty miles that day, 
and gained the valley bed, where a slender stream ran 
thin and spread over a wide sandy bottom. It was 
salty water, but it was welcome to both man and beast. 

The following day he crossed, and the tracks of 
Wildfire were still wet on the sand bars. The stallion 
was slowing down. Slone saw him, limping along, 
not far in advance. There was a ten-mile stretch of 
level ground, blown hard as rock, from which the sus- 
tenance had been bleached, for not a spear of grass 
grew there. And following that was a tortuous pas- 
sage through a weird region of clay dunes, blue and 
violet and heliotrope and lavender, all worn smooth 

65 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


by rain and wind. Wildfire favored the soft ground 
now. He had deviated from his straight course. And 
he was partial to washes and dips in the earth where 
water might have lodged. And he was not now scorn- 
ful of a green-scummed water hole with its white 
margin of alkali. That night Slone made camp with 
Wildfire in plain sight. The stallion stopped when 
his pursuers stopped. And he began to graze on the 
same stretch with Nagger. How strange this seemed 
to Slone ! 

Here at this camp was evidence of Indians. Wild- 
fire had swung round to the north in his course. Like 
any pursued wild animal, he had begun to circle. And 
he had pointed his nose toward the Utah he had left. 

Next morning Wildfire was not in sight, but he had 
left his tracks in the sand. Slone trailed him with 
Nagger at a trot. Toward the head of this sandy 
flat Slone came upon old cornfields, and a broken dam 
where the water had been stored, and well-defined trails 
leading away to the right. Somewhere over there in 
the desert lived Indians. At this point Wildfire aban- 
doned the trail he had followed for many days and 
cut out more to the north. It took all the morning 
hours to climb three great steppes and benches that 
led up to the summit of a mesa, vast in extent. It 
turned out to be a sandy waste. The wind rose and 
everywhere were moving sheets of sand, and in the 
distance circular yellow dust devils, rising high like 
water spouts, and back down in the sun-scorched valley 
66 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


a sandstorm moved along majestically, burying the 
desert in its yellow pall. 

Then two more days of sand and another day of a 
slowly rising ground growing from bare to gray and 
gray to green, and then to the purple of sage and cedar 
— these three grinding days were toiled out with only 
one water hole. 

And Wildfire was lame and in distress and Nagger 
was growing gaunt and showing strain ; and Slone, hag- 
gard and black and worn, plodded miles and miles on 
foot to save his horse. 

Slone felt that it would be futile to put the chase to 
a test of speed. Nagger could never head that stallion. 
Slone meant to go on and on, always pushing Wildfire, 
keeping him tired, wearied, and worrying him, till a 
section of the country was reached where he could 
drive Wildfire into some kind of a natural trap. The 
pursuit seemed endless. Wildfire kept to open country 
where he could not be surprised. 

There came a morning when Slone climbed to a 
cedared plateau that rose for a whole day’s travel, and 
then split into a labyrinthine maze of canons. There 
were trees, grass, water. It was a high country, cool 
and wild, like the uplands he had left. For days he 
camped on Wildfire’s trail, always relentlessly driv- 
ing him, always watching for the trap he hoped to 
find. And the red stallion spent much of this time 
of flight in looking backward. Whenever Slone came 
in sight of him he had his head over his shoulder, 
67 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


watching. And on the soft ground of these canons 
he had begun to recover from his lameness. But this 
did not worry Slone. Sooner or later Wildfire would 
go down into a high-walled wash, from which there 
would be no outlet; or he would wander into a box 
canon ; or he would climb out on a mesa with no place 
to descend, unless he passed Slone; or he would get 
cornered on a soft, steep slope where his hoofs would 
sink deep and make him slow. The nature of the 
desert had changed. Slone had entered a wonderful 
region, the like of which he had not seen — a high 
plateau criss-crossed in every direction by narrow 
canons with red walls a thousand feet high. 

And one of the strange turning canons opened into 
a vast valley of monuments. 

The plateau had weathered and washed away, leav- 
ing huge sections of stone walls, all standing isolated, 
different in size and shape, but all clean-cut, bold, with 
straight lines. They stood up everywhere, monu- 
mental, towering, many-colored, lending a singular and 
beautiful aspect to the great green and gray valley, 
billowing away to the north, where dim, broken battle- 
ments mounted to the clouds. 

The only living thing in Slone’s sight was Wildfire. 
He shone red down on the green slope. 

Slone’s heart swelled. This was the setting for that 
grand horse — a perfect wild range. But also it 
seemed the last place where there might be any chance 
to trap the stallion. Still that did not alter Slone’s 
68 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


purpose, though it lost to him the joy of former hopes. 
He rode down the slope, out upon the billowing floor 
of the valley. Wildfire looked back to see his pur- 
suers, and then the solemn stillness broke to a wild, 
piercing whistle. 

Day after day, camping where night found him, 
Slone followed the stallion, never losing sight of him 
till darkness had fallen. The valley was immense and 
the monuments miles apart. But they always seemed 
close together and near him. The air magnified every- 
thing. Slone lost track of time. The strange, sol- 
emn, lonely days and the silent, lonely nights, and the 
endless pursuit, and the wild, weird valley — these com- 
pleted the work of years on Slone and he became sat- 
isfied, unthinking, almost savage. 

The toil and privation had worn him down and he 
was like iron. His garments hung in tatters ; his boots 
were ripped and soleless. Long since his flour had 
been used up, and all his supplies except the salt. He 
lived on the meat of rabbits, but they were scarce, 
and the time came when there were none. Some days 
he did not eat. Hunger did not make him suffer. He 
killed a desert bird now and then, and once a wildcat 
crossing the valley. Eventually he felt his strength 
diminishing, and then he took to digging out the pack 
rats and cooking them. But these, too, were scarce. 
At length starvation faced Slone. But he knew he 
would not starve. Many times he had been within 
69 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


rifle shot of Wildfire. And the grim, forbidding 
thought grew upon him that he must kill the stallion. 
The thought seemed involuntary, but his mind rejected 
it. Nevertheless, he knew that if he could not catch 
the stallion he would kill him. That had been the end 
of many a desperate rider’s pursuit of a coveted horse. 

While Slone kept on his merciless pursuit, never let- 
ting Wildfire rest by day, time went on just as relent- 
lessly. Spring gave way to early summer. The hot 
sun bleached the grass; water holes failed out in the 
valley, and water could be found only in the canons; 
and the dry winds began to blow the sand. It was a 
sandy valley, green and gray only at a distance, and 
out toward the north there were no monuments, and 
the slow heave of sand lifted toward the dim walls. 

Wildfire worked away from this open valley, back 
to the south end, where the great monuments loomed, 
and still farther back, where they grew closer, till at 
length some of them were joined by weathered ridges 
to the walls of the surrounding plateau. For all that 
Slone could see, Wildfire was in perfect condition. 
But Nagger was not the horse he had been. Slone 
realized that in one way or another the pursuit was 
narrowing down to the end. 

He found a water hole at the head of a wash in a 
split in the walls, and here he let Nagger rest and 
graze one whole day — the first day for a long time 
that he had not kept the red stallion in sight. That 
day was marked by the good fortune of killing a 
70 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


rabbit, and while eating it his gloomy, fixed mind ad- 
mitted that he was starving. He dreaded the next 
sunrise. But he could not hold it back. There, be- 
hind the dark monuments, standing sentinel-like, the 
sky lightened and reddened and burnt into gold and 
pink, till out of the golden glare the sun rose glorious. 
And Slone, facing the league-long shadows of the 
monuments, rode out again into the silent, solemn day, 
on his hopeless quest. 

For a change Wildfire had climbed high up a slope 
of talus, through a narrow pass, rounded over with 
drifting sand. And Slone gazed down into a huge 
amphitheater full of monuments, like all that strange 
country. A basin three miles across lay beneath him. 
Walls and weathered slants of rock and steep slopes 
of reddish-yellow sand inclosed this oval depression. 
The floor was white, and it seemed to move gently or 
radiate with heat waves. Studying it, Slone made out 
that the motion was caused by wind in long bleached 
grass. He had crossed small areas of this grass in 
different parts of the region. 

Wildfire's tracks led down into this basin, and pres- 
ently Slone, by straining his eyes, made out the red 
spot that was the stallion. 

“ He’s lookin’ to quit the country,” soliloquized 
Slone, as he surveyed the scene. 

With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall 
and slope, and when he had circled the huge depres- 
sion he made sure that Wildfire could not get out 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


except by the narrow pass through which he had gone 
in. Slone sat astride Nagger in the mouth of this 
pass — a wash a few yards wide, walled by broken, 
rough rock on one side and an insurmountable slope 
on the other. 

“ If this hole was only little, now,” sighed Slone, as 
he gazed at the sweeping, shimmering oval floor, “ I 
might have a chance. But down there — we couldn’t 
get near him.” 

There was no water in that dry bowl. Slone re- 
flected on the uselessness of keeping Wildfire down 
there, because Nagger could not go without water as 
long as Wildfire. For the first time Slone hesitated. 
It seemed merciless to Nagger to drive him down into 
this hot, windy hole. The wind blew from the west, 
and it swooped up the slope, hot, with the odor of dry, 
dead grass. 

But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and 
suddenly he was tense, excited, glowing, yet grim and 
hard. 

“ Wijdfire, I’ll make you run with your namesake in 
that high grass,” called Slone. The speech was full of 
bitter failure, of regret, of the hardness of a rider who 
could not give up the horse to freedom. 

Slone meant to ride down there and fire the long 
grass. In that wind there would indeed be wildfire to 
race with the red stallion. It would perhaps mean his 
death; at least it would chase him out of that hole^ 
where to follow him would be useless. 

72 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


“I’d make you hump now to get away if I could 
get behind you,” muttered Slone. He saw that if he 
could fire the grass on the other side the wind of flame 
would drive Wildfire straight toward him. The slopes 
and walls narrowed up to the pass, but high grass grew 
to within a few rods of where Slone stood. But it 
seemed impossible to get behind Wildfire. 

“ At night — then : — I could get round him,” said 
Slone, thinking hard and narrowing his gaze to scan 
the circle of wall and slope. “ Why not? . . . No 
wind at night. That grass would burn slow till morn- 
in’ — till the wind came up — an’ it’s been west for 
days.” 

Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger 
and to cry out to him in wild exultance. 

“Old horse, we’ve got him! We’ve got him! 
We’ll put a rope on him before this time to-morrow ! ” 

Slone yielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not 
last long, soon succeeding to sober, keen thought. He 
rode down into the bowl a mile, making absolutely cer- 
tain that Wildfire could not climb out on that side. 
The far end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer wall 
of rock. Then he crossed to the left side. Here the 
sandy slope was almost too steep for even him to go 
up. And there was grass that would burn. He re- 
turned to the pass assured that Wildfire had at last 
fallen into a trap the like Slone had never dreamed 
of. The great horse was doomed to run into living 
flame or the whirling noose of a lasso. 

73 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Then Slone reflected. Nagger had that very morn- 
ing had his fill of good water — the first really satisfy- 
ing drink for days. If he was rested that day, on the 
morrow he would be fit for the grueling work possibly 
in store for him. Slone unsaddled the horse and 
turned him loose, and with a snort he made down the 
gentle slope for the grass. Then Slone carried his 
saddle to a shady spot afforded by a slab of rock and 
a dwarf cedar, and here he composed himself to rest 
and watch and think and wait. 

Wildfire was plainly in sight no more than two miles 
away. Gradually he was grazing along toward the 
monuments and the far end of the great basin. Slone 
believed, because the place was so large, that Wildfire 
thought there was a way out on the other side or over 
the slopes or through the walls. Never before had 
the farsighted stallion made a mistake. Slone sud- 
denly felt the keen, stabbing fear of an outlet some- 
where. But it left him quickly. He had studied those 
slopes and walls. Wildfire could not get out, except 
by the pass he had entered, unless he could fly. 

Slone lay in the shade, his head propped on his 
saddle, and while gazing down into the shimmering 
hollow he began to jftan. He calculated that he must 
be able to carry fire swiftly across the far end of the 
basin, so that he would not be absent long from the 
mouth of the pass. Fire was always a difficult mat- 
ter, since he must depend only on flint and steel. He 
decided to wait till dark, build a fire with dead cedar 
74 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


sticks, and carry a bundle of them with burning ends. 
He felt assured that the wind caused by riding would 
keep them burning. After he had lighted the grass 
all he had to do was to hurry back to his station and 
there await developments. 

The day passed slowly, and it was hot. The heat- 
waves rose in dark, wavering lines and veils from the 
valley. The wind blew almost a gale. Thin, curling 
sheets of sand blew up over the crests of the slopes, 
and the sound it made was a soft, silken rustling, very 
low. The sky was a steely blue above and copper close 
over the distant walls. 

That afternoon, toward the close, Slone ate the last 
of the meat. At sunset the wind died away and the 
air cooled. There was a strip of red along the wall 
of rock and on the tips of the monuments, and it 
lingered there for long, a strange, bright crown. Nag- 
ger was not far away, but Wildfire had disappeared, 
probably behind one of the monuments. 

When twilight fell Slone went down after Nagger 
and, returning with him, put on bridle and saddle. 
Then he began to search for suitable sticks of wood. 
Farther back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars, 
and from these secured enough) for his purpose. He 
kindled a fire and burned the ends of the sticks into 
red embers. Making a bundle of these, he put them 
under his arm, the dull, glowing ends backward, and 
then mounted his horse. 

It was just about dark when he faced down into the 

75 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


valley. When he reached level ground he kept to the 
edge of the left slope and put Nagger to a good trot. 
The grass and brush were scant here, and the color of 
the sand was light, so he had no difficulty in traveling. 
From time to time his horse went through grass, and 
its dry, crackling rustle, showing how it would burn, 
was music to Slone. Gradually the monuments began 
to loom up, bold and black against the blue sky, with 
stars seemingly hanging close over them. Slone had 
calculated that the basin was smaller than it really was, 
in both length and breadth. This worried him. Wild- 
fire might see or hear or scent him, and make a break 
back to the pass and thus escape. Slone was glad when 
the huge, dark monuments were indistinguishable from 
the black, frowning wall. He had to go slower here, 
because of the darkness. But at last he reached the 
slow rise of jumbled rock that evidently marked the 
extent of weathering on that side. Here he turned 
to the right and rode out into the valley. The floor 
was level and thickly overgrown with long, dead grass 
and dead greasewood, as dry as tinder. It was easy 
to account for the dryness ; neither snow nor rain had 
visited that valley for many months. Slone whipped 
one of the sticks in the wind and soon had the smould- 
ering end red and showering sparks. Then he dropped 
the stick in the grass, with curious intent and a strange 
feeling of regret. 

Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering 
roar. Nagger snorted. “ Wildfire ! ” exclaimed Slone. 
76 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


That word was a favorite one with riders, and now 
Slone used it both to call out his menace to the stallion 
and to express his feeling for that blaze, already run- 
ning wild. 

Without looking back, Slone rode across the valley, 
dropping a glowing stick every quarter of a mile. 
When he reached the other side there were a dozen fires 
behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke rising 
lazily. Then he loped Nagger along the side back to 
the sandy ascent, and on up to the mouth of the pass. 
There he searched for tracks. Wildfire had not gone 
out, and Slone experienced relief and exultation. He 
took up a position in the middle of the narrowest part 
of the pass, and there, with Nagger ready for anything, 
he once more composed himself to watch and wait. 

Far across the darkness of the valley, low down, 
twelve lines of fire, widely separated, crept toward one 
another. They appeared thin and slow, with only an 
occasional leaping flame. And some of the black 
spaces must have been monuments, blotting out the 
creeping snail lines of red. Slone watched, strangely 
fascinated. 

“ What do you think of that? ” he said, aloud, and 
he meant his query for Wildfire. 

As he watched the lines perceptibly lengthened and 
brightened and pale shadows of smoke began to appear. 
Over at the left of the valley the two brightest fires, 
the first he had started, crept closer and closer together. 
They seemed long in covering distance. But not a 
77 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


breath of wind stirred, and besides they really might 
move swiftly, without looking so to Slone. When the 
two lines met a sudden and larger blaze rose. 

“ Ah ! ” said the rider, and then he watched the other 
lines creeping together. How slowly fire moved, he 
thought. The red stallion would have every chance to 
run between those lines, if he dared. But a wild horse 
fears nothing like fire. This one would not run the 
gantlet of flames. Nevertheless Slone felt more and 
more relieved as the lines closed. The hours of the 
night dragged past until at length one long, continuous 
line of fire spread level across the valley, its bright, 
red line broken only where the monuments of stone 
were silhouetted against it. 

The darkness of the valley changed. The light of 
the moon changed. The radiance of the stars changed. 
Either the line of fire was finding denser fuel to con- 
sume or it was growing appreciably closer, for the 
flames began to grow, to leap, and to flare. 

Slone strained his ears for the thud of hoofs on 
sand. 

The time seemed endless in its futility of results, but 
fleeting after it had passed ; and he could tell how the 
hours fled by the ever-recurring need to replenish the 
little fire he kept burning in the pass. 

A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and 
behind it loomed the monuments, weird and dark, with 
columns of yellow and white smoke wreathing them. 

Suddenly Slone’s sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling 

78 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


sound. He leaned down to place his ear to the sand. 
Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs made him leap to his 
feet, reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gun 
with his left. 

Nagger lifted his head, sniffed the air, and snorted. 
Slone peered into the black belt of gloom that lay 
below him. It would be hard to see a horse there, 
unless he got high enough to be silhouetted against that 
line of fire now flaring to the sky. But he heard the 
beat of hoofs, swift, sharp, louder — louder. The 
night shadows were deceptive. That wonderful light 
confused him, made the place unreal. Was he dream- 
ing? Or had the long chase and his privations un- 
hinged his mind? He reached for Nagger. Nd! 
The big black was real, alive, quivering, pounding the 
sand. He scented an enemy. 

Once more Slone peered down into the void or what 
seemed a void. But it, too, had changed, lightened. 
The whole valley was brightening. Great palls of curl- 
ing smoke rose white and yellow, to turn back as the 
monuments met their crests, and then to roll upward, 
blotting out the stars. It was such a light as he had 
never seen, except in dreams. Pale moonlight and 
dimmed starlight and wan dawn all vague and strange 
and shadowy under the wild and vivid light of burning 
grass. 

In the pale path before Slone, that fanlike slope of 
sand which opened down into the valley, appeared a 
swiftly moving black object, like a fleeing phantom. 
79 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


It was a phantom horse. Slone felt that his eyes, de- 
ceived by his mind, saw racing images. Many a wild 
chase he had lived in dreams on some far desert. But 
what was that beating in his ears — sharp, swift, even, 
rhythmic? Never had his ears played him false. Never 
had he heard things in his dreams. That running 
object was a horse and he was coming like the wind. 
Slone felt something grip his heart. All the time and 
endurance and pain and thirst and suspense and long- 
ing and hopelessness — the agony of the whole endless 
chase — closed tight on his heart in that instant. 

The running horse halted just in the belt of light 
cast by the burning grass. There he stood sharply de- 
fined, clear as a cameo, not a hundred paces from Slone. 
It was Wildfire. 

Slone uttered an involuntary cry. Thrill on thrill 
shot through him. Delight and hope and fear and 
despair claimed him in swift, successive flashes. And 
then again the ruling passion of a rider held him — 
the sheer glory of a grand and unattainable horse. 
For Slone gave up Wildfire in that splendid moment. 
How had he ever dared to believe he could capture that 
wild stallion? Slone looked and looked, filling his 
mind, regretting nothing, sure that the moment was 
reward for all he had endured. 

The weird lights magnified Wildfire and showed him 
clearly. He seemed gigantic. He shone black against 
the fire. His head was high, his mane flying. Behind 
him the fire flared and the valley-wide column of 'smoke 
80 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


rolled majestically upward, and the great monuments 
seemed to retreat darkly and mysteriously as the flames 
advanced beyond them. It was a beautiful, unearthly 
spectacle, with its silence the strangest feature. 

But suddenly Wildfire broke that silence with a 
whistle which to Slone’s overstrained faculties seemed 
a blast as piercing as the splitting sound of lightning. 
And with the whistle Wildfire plunged up toward the 
pass. 

Slone yelled at the top of his lungs and fired his gun 
before he could terrorize the stallion and drive him 
back down the slope. Soon Wildfire became again 
a running black object, and then he disappeared. 

The great line of fire had gotten beyond the monu- 
ments and now stretched unbroken across the valley 
from wall to slope. Wildfire could never pierce that 
line of flames. And now Slone saw, in the paling sky 
to the east, that dawn was at hand. 

IV 

Slone looked grimly glad when simultaneously with 
the first red flash of sunrise a breeze fanned his cheek. 
All that was needed now was a west wind. And here 
came the assurance of it. 

The valley appeared hazy and smoky, with slow, 
rolling clouds low down where the line of fire moved. 
The coming of daylight paled the blaze of the grass, 
though here and there Slone caught flickering glimpses 
of dull red flame. The wild stallion kept to the center 
of the valley, restlessly facing this way and that, but 
81 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


never toward the smoke. Slone made sure that Wild- 
fire gradually gave ground as the line of smoke slowly 
worked toward him. 

Every moment the breeze freshened, grew steadier 
and stronger, until Slone saw that it began to clear the 
valley of the low-hanging smoke. There came a time 
when once more the blazing line extended across from 
slope to slope. 

Wildfire was cornered, trapped. Many times Slone 
nervously uncoiled and recoiled his lasso. Presently 
the great chance of his life would come — the hardest 
and most important throw he would ever have with 
a rope. He did not miss often, but then he missed 
sometimes, and here he must be swift and sure. It 
annoyed him that his hands perspired and trembled 
and that something weighty seemed to obstruct his 
breathing. He muttered that he was pretty much 
worn out, not in the best of condition for a hard fight 
with a wild horse. Still he would capture Wildfire; 
his mind was unalterably set there. He anticipated 
that the stallion would make a final and desperate rush 
past him; and he had his plan of action all outlined. 
What worried him was the possibility of Wildfire’s 
doing some unforeseen feat at the very last. Slone 
was prepared for hours of strained watching, and 
then a desperate effort, and then a shock that might 
kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long race and 
fight. 

But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the 
82 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


long watch and wait. The wind had grown strong 
and was driving the fire swiftly. The flames, fanned 
by the breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier. In less 
than an hour, though the time seemed only a few 
moments to the excited Slone, Wildfire had been driven 
down toward the narrowing neck of the valley, and 
he had begun to run, to and fro, back and forth. Any 
moment, then, Slone expected him to grow terrorized 
and to come tearing up toward the pass. 

Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not 
attempt to make the pass. Instead he went at the 
right-hand slope of the valley and began to climb. 
The slope was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed 
up and up. The dust flew in clouds ; the gravel rolled 
down, and the sand followed in long streams. Wild- 
fire showed his keenness by zigzagging up the slope. 

“ Go ahead, you red devil ! ” yelled Slone. He was 
much elated. In that soft bank Wildfire would tire 
out while not hurting himself. 

Slone watched the stallion in admiration and pity 
and exultation. Wildfire did not make much head- 
way, for he slipped back almost as much as he gained. 
He attempted one place after another where he failed. 
There was a bank of clay, some few feet high, and he 
could not round it at either end or surmount it in the 
middle. Finally he literally pawed and cut a path, 
much as if he were digging in the sand for water. 
When he got over that he was not much better off. 
The slope above was endless and grew steeper, more 
83 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


difficult toward the top. Slone knew absolutely that 
nc horse could climb over it. He grew apprehensive, 
however, for Wildfire might stick up there on the 
slope until the line of fire passed. The horse appar- 
ently shunned any near proximity to the fire, and per- 
formed prodigious efforts to escape. 

“ He’ll be ridin’ an avalanche pretty soon,” muttered 
Slone. 

Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill 
thinly over the low bank. Wildfire, now sinking to his 
knees, worked steadily upward till he had reached a 
point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long, yellow 
bank of treacherous-looking sand. Here he was halted 
by a low bulge, which he might have surmounted had 
his feet been free. But he stood deep in the sand. 
For the first time he looked down at the sweeping fire, 
and then at Slone. 

Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. 
He snorted in fright. The avalanche started slowly 
and was evidently no mere surface slide. It was deep. 
It stopped — then started again — and again stopped. 
Wildfire appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper. 
His struggles only embedded him more firmly. Then 
the bank of sand, with an ominous, low roar, began 
to move once more. This time it slipped swiftly. The 
dust rose in a cloud, almost obscuring the horse. 
Long streams of gravel rattled down, and waterfalls 
of sand waved over the steppes of the slope. 

Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone 

84 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


saw, from the great oval hole it had left above, that it 
was indeed deep. That was the reason it did not slide 
readily. When the dust cleared away Slone saw the 
stallion, sunk to his flanks in the sand, utterly helpless. 

With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a 
lasso in each hand, he ran down the long bank. The 
fire was perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, and, since 
the grass was thinning out, it was not coming so fast 
as it had been. The position of the stallion was half- 
way between the fire and Slone, and a hundred yards 
up the slope. 

Like a madman Slone climbed up through the drag- 
ging, loose sand. He was beside himself with a fury 
of excitement. He fancied his eyes were failing him, 
that it was not possible the great horse really was up 
there, helpless in the sand. Yet every huge stride 
Slone took brought him closer to a fact he could not 
deny. In his eagerness he slipped, and fell, and 
crawled, and leaped, until he reached the slide which 
held Wildfire prisoner. 

The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up 
to his body, for all the movement he could make. He 
could move only his head. He held that up, his eyes 
wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide 
open, his teeth gleaming. A sound like a scream rent 
the air. Terrible fear and hate were expressed in that 
piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all 
of brute savageness in the look and action of his head, 
he appeared hideous. 


85 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche 
slipped a foot or two, halted, slipped once more, and 
slowly started again with that low roar. He did not 
care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he 
leaped closer, whirling his rope. The loop hissed 
round his head and whistled as he flung it. And when 
fiercely he jerked back on the rope, the noose closed 
tight round Wildfire’s neck. 

“I — got — a rope — ■ on him ! ” cried Slone, in 
hoarse pants. 

He stared, unbelieving. It was unreal, that sight 
— unreal like the slow, grinding movement of the 
avalanche under him. Wildfire’s head seemed a demon 
head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to 
rend. That horrible scream could not be the scream of 
a horse. 

Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when 
that second of incredulity flashed by, then came the 
moment of triumph. No moment could ever equal 
that one, when he realized he stood there with a rope 
around that grand stallion’s neck. All the days and 
the miles and the toil and the endurance and the hope- 
lessness and the hunger were paid for in that moment. 
His heart seemed too large for his breast. 

“ I tracked — you ! ” he cried, savagely. “ i 
stayed — with you ! An’ I got a rope — on you ! 
An’ — I’ll ride you — you red devil ! ” 

The passion of the man was intense. That endless, 
racking pursuit had brought out all the hardness the 
86 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


desert had engendered in him. Almost hate, instead 
of love, spoke in Slone’s words. He hauled on the las- 
so, pulling the stallion’s head down and down. The 
action was the lust of capture as well as the rider’s in- 
stinctive motive to make the horse fear him. Life 
was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it 
showed in the terror which made him hideous. And 
man and beast somehow resembled each other in that 
moment which was inimical to noble life. 

The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacher- 
ously loosing its hold for a long plunge. The line of 
fire below ate at the bleached grass and the long column 
of smoke curled away on the wind. 

Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with 
the right he swung the other rope, catching the noose 
round Wildfire’s nose. Then letting go of the first 
rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of the 
stallion far down. Hand over hand Slone closed in 
on the horse. He leaped on Wildfire’s head, pressed 
it down, and, holding it down on the sand with his 
knees, with swift fingers he tied the nose in a hacka- 
more — an improvised halter. Then, just as swiftly, 
he bound his scarf tight round Wildfire’s head, blind- 
folding him. 

“ All so easy ! ” exclaimed Slone, under his breath. 
“ Who would believe it ! Is it a dream ? ” 

He rose and let the stallion have a free head. 

“ Wildfire, I got a rope on you — an’ a hackamore 
— an’ a blinder,” said Slone. “ An’ if I had a bridle 

87 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


I’d put that on you. Who’d ever believe you’d catch 
yourself, draggin’ in the sand? ” 

Slone, finding himself falling on the sand, grew alive 
to the augmented movement of the avalanche. It had 
begun to slide, to heave and bulge and crack. Dust 
rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared 
to open and let him sink to his knees. The rattle of 
gravel was drowned in a soft roar. Then he shot 
down swiftly, holding the lassos, keeping himself 
erect, and riding as if in a boat. He felt the succes- 
sive steppes of the slope, and then the long incline be- 
low, and then the checking and rising and spreading of 
the avalanche as it slowed down on the level. All 
movement then was checked violently. He appeared 
to be half buried in sand. While he struggled to ex- 
tricate himself the thick dust blew away and, settled so 
that he could see. Wildfire lay before him, at the edge 
of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded 
as he had been up on the slope. He was struggling 
and probably soon would have been able to get out. 
The line of fire was close now, but Slone did not fear 
that. 

At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, 
obedient, but snorting, with ears laid back. He halted. 
A second whistle started him again. Slone finally dug 
himself out of the sand, pulled the lassos out, and ran 
the length of them toward Nagger. The black 
showed both fear and fight. His eyes rolled and he 
half shied away. 


88 


THE WILD-HORSE HUNTER 


“ Come on!” called Slone, harshly. 

He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, 
mounting in a flash, wound both lassos round the pom- 
mel of the saddle. 

“ Haul him out, Nagger, old boy ! ” cried Slone, and 
he dug spurs into the black. 

One plunge of Nagger’s slid the stallion out of the 
sand. Snorting, wild, blinded, Wildfire got up, shak- 
ing in every limb. He could not see his enemies. The 
blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scent impos- 
sible. But in the taut lassos he sensed the direction of 
his captors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the 
plunge, and struck out viciously with his hoofs. Slone, 
quick with spur and bridle, swerved Nagger aside and 
Wildfire, off his balance, went down with a crash. 
Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over 
twice before he got forefeet planted. Once up, he 
reared again, screeching his rage, striking wildly with 
his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and toppled him over 
again. 

“Wildfire, it’s no fair fight,” he called, grimly. 
“ But you led me a chase. An’ you learn right now 
I’m boss!” 



III. — The Hydrophobic Skunk 1 

By Irvin S. Cobb 

T HE Hydrophobic Skunk resides at the ex- 
treme bottom of the Grand Canon and, next 
to a Southern Republican who never asked for 
a Federal office, is the rarest of living creatures. He 
is so rare that nobody ever saw him — that is, nobody 
except a native. I met plenty of tourists who had seen 
people who had seen him, but never a tourist who had 
seen him with his own eyes. In addition to being 
rare, he is highly gifted. 

1 From Roughing It de Luxe. Copyright, 1914, by George H. 
Doran Company. Reprinted by special permission of author and 
publisher. 


90 


THE HYDROPHOBIC SKUNK 


I think almost anybody will agree with me that the 
common, ordinary skunk has been most richly dowered 
by Nature. To adorn a skunk with any extra quali- 
fications seems as great a waste of the raw material 
as painting the lily or gilding refined gold. He is al- 
ready amply equipped for outdoor pursuits. Nobody 
intentionally shoves him round ; everybody gives him as 
much room as he seems to need. He commands re- 
spect — nay, more than that, respect and veneration 

— wherever he goes. Joy riders never run him down 
and foot passengers avoid crowding him into a corner. 
You would think Nature had done amply well by the 
skunk ; but no — the Hydrophobic Skunk comes along 
and upsets all these calculations. Besides carrying 
the traveling credentials of an ordinary skunk, he is 
rabid in the most rabidissimus form. He is not mad 
just part of the time, like one’s relatives by marriage 

— and not mad most of the time, like the old-fash- 
ioned railroad ticket agent — but mad all the time — 
incurably, enthusiastically and unanimously mad ! 
He is mad and he is glad of it. 

We made the acquaintance of the Hydrophobic 
Skunk when we rode down Hermit Trail. The casual 
visitor to the Grand Canon first of all takes the rim 
drive; then he essays Bright Angel Trail, which is 
sufficiently scary for his purposes until he gets used to 
it; and after that he grows more adventurous and 
tackles Hermit Trail, which is a marvel of corkscrew 
convolutions, gimleting its way down this red abdom- 
9i 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


inal wound of a canon to the very gizzard of the world. 
H*ere, Johnny, our guide, felt moved to speech, and 
we hearkened to his words and hungered for more, 
for Johnny knows the ranges of the Northwest as a 
city dweller knows his own little side street. In the 
fall of the year Johnny comes down to the Canon and 
serves as a guide a while ; and then, when he gets so he 
just can’t stand associating with tourists any longer, 
he packs his war bags and journeys back to the North- 
ern Range and enjoys the company of cows a spell. 
Cows are not exactly exciting, but they don’t ask fool 
questions. 

A highly competent young person is Johnny and a 
cow-puncher of parts. Most of the Canon guides are 
cow-punchers — accomplished ones, too, and of high 
standing in the profession. With a touch of rever- 
ence Johnny pointed out to us Sam Scovel, the greatest 
bronco buster of his time, now engaged in piloting 
tourists. 

“Can he ride?” echoed Johnny in answer to our 
question. “ Scovel could ride an earthquake if she 
stood still long enough for him to mount! He rode 
Steamboat — not Young Steamboat, but Old Steam- 
boat ! He rode Rocking Chair, and he’s the only man 
that ever did that and was not called on in a couple of 
days to attend his own funeral.” 

We went on and on at a lazy mule trot, hearing the 
unwritten annals of the range from one who had seen 
them enacted at first hand. Pretty soon we passed a 
92 


THE HYDROPHOBIC SKUNK 


herd of burros with mealy, dusty noses and spotty 
hides, feeding on prickly pears and rock lichens; and 
just before sunset we slid down the last declivity out 
upon the plateau and came to a camp as was a camp! 

This was roughing it de luxe with a most de-luxey 
vengeance! Here were three tents, or rather three 
canvas houses, with wooden half walls ; and they were 
spick-and-span inside and out, and had glass windows 
in them and doors and matched wooden floors. . . . 
The mess tent was provided with a table with a clean 
cloth to go over it, and there were china dishes and 
china cups and shiny knives, forks and spoons. . . . 
Bill was in charge of the camp — a dark, rangy, good- 
looking leading man of a cowboy, wearing his blue 
shirt and his red neckerchief with an air. 

That Johnny certainly could cook ! Served on china 
dishes upon a cloth-covered table, we had mounds of 
fried steaks and shoals of fried bacon; and a bushel, 
more or less, of sheepherder potatoes; and green peas 
and sliced peaches out of cans; and sour-dough bis- 
cuits as light as kisses and much more filling; and fresh 
butter and fresh milk; and coffee as black as your hat 
and strong as sin. How easy it is for civilized man to 
become primitive and comfortable in his way of eating, 
especially if he has just ridden ten miles on a buck- 
board and nine more on a mule and is away down at 
the bottom of the Grand Canon — and there is nobody 
to look on disapprovingly when he takes a bite that 
would be a credit to a steam shovel! 

93 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Despite all reports to the contrary, I wish to state 
that it is no trouble at all to eat green peas off a knife- 
blade — you merely mix them in with potatoes for a 
cement; and fried steak — take it from an old steak 
eater — tastes best when eaten with those tools of Na- 
ture’s own providing, both hands and your teeth. An 
hour passed — busy, yet pleasant — and we were both 
gorged to the gills and had reared back with our cigars 
lit to enjoy a third jorum of black coffee apiece, when 
Johnny, speaking in an offhand way to Bill, who was 
still hiding away biscuits inside of himself like a par- 
lor prestidigitator, said: 

“ Seen any of them old Hydrophobies the last day 
or two? ” 

“ Not so many,” said Bill casually. “ There was a 
couple out last night pirootin’ round in the moonlight. 
I reckon, though, there’ll be quite a flock of ’em out 
to-night. A new moon always seems to fetch ’em up 
from the river.” 

Both of us quit blowing on our coffee and we put the 
cups down. I think I was the one who spoke. 

“ I beg your pardon,” I asked, “ but what did you 
say would be out to-night ? ” 

“ We were just speakin’ to one another about them 
Hydrophoby Skunks,” said Bill apologetically. “ This 
here Canon is where they mostly hang out and frolic 
’round.” 

I laid down my cigar, too. I admit I was inter- 
ested. 


94 


THE HYDROPHOBIC SKUNK 

“Oh!” I said softly — like that. “Is it? Do 
they? ” 

“ Yes,” said Johnny. “I reckin there’s liable to be 
one come shovin’ his old nose into that door any 
minute. Or probably two — they mostly travels in 
pairs — sets, as you might say.” 

“ You’d know one the minute you saw him, though,” 
said Bill. “ They’re smaller than a regular skunk and 
spotted where the other kind is striped. And they got 
little red eyes. You won’t have no trouble at all recog- 
nizin’ one.” 

It was at this juncture that we both got up and 
moved back by the stove. It was warmer there and the 
chill of evening seemed to be settling down noticeably. 

“ Funny thing about Hydrophoby Skunks,” went on 
Johnny after a moment of pensive thought — “mad, 
you know ! ” 

“ What makes them mad ? ” The two of us asked 
the question together. 

“ Born that way ! ” explained Bill — “ mad from 
the start, and won’t never do nothin’ to get shut of 
it.” 

“ Ahem — they never attack humans, I suppose ? ” 

“ Don’t they? ” said Johnny, as if surprised at such 
ignorance. “ Why, humans is their favorite pastime ! 
Humans is just pie to a Hydrophoby Skunk. It ain’t 
really any fun to be bit by a Hydrophoby Skunk 
neither.” He raised his coffee cup to his lips and im- 
bibed deeply. 


95 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ Which you certainly said something then, 
Johnny,” stated Bill. “ You see,” he went on, turning 
to us, “ they aim to catch you asleep and they creep up 
right soft and take holt of you — take holt of a year 
usually — and clamp their teeth and just hang on for 
further orders. Some says they hang on till it thun- 
ders, same as snappin’ turtles. But that's a lie, I judge, 
because there's weeks on a stretch down here when it 
don't thunder. All the cases I ever heard of they let 
go at sunup.” 

“ It is right painful at the time,” said Johnny, taking 
up the thread of the narrative; “ and then in nine days 
you go mad yourself. Remember that fellow the 
Hydrophoby Skunk bit down here by the ra- 
pids, Bill? Let’s see now — what was that hombre's 
name ? ” 

“ Williams,” supplied Bill — “ Heck Williams. I 
saw him at Flagstaff when they took him there to the 
hospital. That guy certainly did carry on regardless. 
First he went mad and his eyes turned red, and he got 
so he didn’t have no real use for water — well, them 
prospectors don’t never care much about water anyway 
— and then he got to snappin’ and bitin’ and foamin’ 
so’s they had to strap him down to his bed. He got 
loose though.” 

“ Broke loose, I suppose ? ” I said. 

“ No, he bit loose,” said Bill with the air of one who 
would not deceive you even in a matter of small de- 
tails. 


9 6 


THE HYDROPHOBIC SKUNK 

“ Do you mean to say he bit those leather straps in 
two?” 

“ No, sir; he couldn’t reach them,” explained Bill, 
“ so he bit the bed in two. Not in one bite, of course,” 
he went on. “ It took him several. I saw him after 
he was laid out. He really wasn’t no credit to himself 
as a corpse.” 

I’m not sure, but I think my companion and I were 
holding hands by now. Outside we could hear that 
little lost echo laughing to itself. It was no time to be 
laughing either. Under certain circumstances I don’t 
know of a lonelier place anywhere on earth than that 
Grand Canon. 

Presently my friend spoke, and it seemed to me his 
voice was a mite husky. Well, he had a bad cold. 

“ You said they mostly attack persons who are sleep- 
ing out, didn’t you ? ” 

“ That’s right, too,” said Johnny, and Bill nodded in 
affirmation. 

“ Then, of course, since we sleep indoors everything 
will be all right,” I put in. 

“ Well, yes and no,” answered Johnny. “ In the 
early part of the evening a Hydrophoby is liable to do 
a lot of prowlin’ round outdoors; but toward mornin' 
they like to get into camps — they dig up under the 
side walls or come up through the floor — and they 
seem to prefer to get in bed with you. They’re cold- 
blooded, I reckin, same as rattlesnakes. Cool nights 
always do drive ’em in, seems like.” 

97 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ It's going to be sort of coolish to-night/’ said Bill 
casually. 

It certainly was. I don’t remember a chillier night 
in years. My teeth were chattering a little — from 
cold — before we turned in. I retired with all my 
clothes on, including my boots and leggings, and I 
wished I had brought along my ear muffs. I also but- 
toned my watch into my lefthand shirt pocket, the idea 
being if for any reason I should conclude to move dur- 
ing the night I would be fully equipped for traveling. 
The door would not stay closely shut — the door- jamb 
had sagged a little and the wind kept blowing the door 
ajar. But after a while we dozed off. 

It was one twenty-seven a. m. when I woke with a 
violent start. I know this was the exact time because 
that was when my watch stopped. I peered about me 
in the darkness. The door was wide open — I could 
tell that. Down on the floor there was a dragging, 
scuffling sound, and from almost beneath me a pair of 
small red eyes peered up phosphorescently. 

“ He’s here ! ” I said to my companion as I emerged 
from my blankets; and he, waking instantly, seemed 
instinctively to know whom I meant. I used to 
wonder at the ease with which a cockroach can climb 
a perfectly smooth wall and run across the ceiling. I 
know now that to do this is the easiest thing in the 
world — if you have the proper incentive behind you. 
I had gone up one wall of the tent and had crossed over 
and was in the act of coming down the other side when 
98 


THE HYDROPHOBIC SKUNK 


Bill burst in, his eyes blurred with sleep, a lighted 
lamp in one hand and a gun in the other. 

I never was so disappointed in my life because it 
wasn't a Hydrophobic Skunk at all. It was a pack rat, 
sometimes called a trade rat, paying us a visit. The 
pack or trade rat is also a denizen of the Grand Canon. 
He is about four times as big as an ordinary rat and has 
an appetite to correspond. He sometimes invades 
your camp and makes free with your things, but he 
never steals anything outright — he merely trades with 
you; hence his name. He totes off a side of meat or 
a bushel of meal and brings a cactus stalk in ; or he will 
confiscate your saddlebags and leave you in exchange 
a nice dry chip. He is honest, but from what I can 
gather he never gets badly stuck on a deal. 

Next morning at breakfast Johnny and Bill were do- 
ing a lot of laughing between them over something or 
other. 



IV. — The Ole Virginia 1 


By Stewart Edward White 
HE ring around the sun had thickened all day 



long, and the turquoise blue of the Arizona 


sky had filmed. Storms in the dry countries 
are infrequent, but heavy ; and this surely meant storm. 
We had ridden since sunup over broad mesas, down 
and out of deep canons, along the base of the moun- 
tains in the wildest parts of the territory. The cattle 
were winding leisurely toward the high country; the 
jack rabbits had disappeared; the quail lacked; we did 
not see a single antelope in the open. 

“ It’s a case of hold up,” the Cattleman ventured his 
opinion. “ I have a ranch over in the Double R. 
Charley and Windy Bill hold it down. We’ll tackle 
it. What do you think? ” 

1 From Arizona Nights. Reprinted by special permission of 
publisher and author. Copyright, 1907, by Doubleday, Page and 
Company. 


IOO 


THE OLE VIRGINIA 


The four cowboys agreed. We dropped into a low, 
broad watercourse, ascended its bed to big cottonwoods 
and flowing water, followed it into box canons between 
rim rock carved fantastically and painted like a Moor- 
ish fagade, until at last in a widening below a rounded 
hill, we came upon an adobe house, a fruit tree, and a 
round corral. This was the Double R. 

Charley and Windy Bill welcomed us with soda bis- 
cuits. We turned our horses out, spread our beds on 
the floor, filled our pipes, and squatted on our heels. 
Various dogs of various breeds investigated us. It 
was very pleasant, and we did not mind the ring 
around the sun. 

“ Somebody else coming,” announced the Cattleman 
finally. 

“ Uncle Jim,” said Charley, after a glance. 

A hawk- faced old man with a long white beard and 
long white hair rode out from the cottonwoods. He 
had on a battered broad hat abnormally high of crown, 
carried across his saddle a heavy “ eight square ” rifle, 
and was followed by a half-dozen lolloping hounds. 

The largest and fiercest of the latter, catching sight 
of our group, launched himself with lightning rapidity 
at the biggest of the ranch dogs, promptly nailed that 
canine by the back of the neck, shook him violently a 
score of times, flung him aside, and pounced on the 
next. During the ensuing few moments that hound 
was the. busiest thing in the West. He satisfactorily 
whipped four dogs, pursued two cats up a tree, upset 
IOI 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


the Dutch oven and the rest of the soda biscuits, stam- 
peded the horses, and raised a cloud of dust adequate 
to represent the smoke of battle. We others were too 
paralyzed to move. Uncle Jim sat placidly on his 
white horse, his thin knees bent to the ox-bow stirrups, 
smoking. 

In ten seconds the trouble was over, principally be- 
cause there was no more trouble to make. The hound 
returned leisurely, licking from his chops the hair of 
his victims. Uncle Jim shook his head. 

“ Trailer,” said he sadly, “ is a little severe.” 

We agreed heartily, and turned in to welcome Uncle 
Jim with a fresh batch of soda biscuits. 

The old man was one of the typical “ long hairs.” 
He had come to the Galiuro Mountains in '69, and 
since ’69 he had remained in the Galiuro Mountains, 
spite of man or the devil. At present he possessed 
some hundreds of cattle, which he was reputed to water, 
in a dry season, from an ordinary dish pan. In times 
past he had prospected. 

That evening, the severe Trailer having dropped to 
slumber, he held forth on big-game hunting and dogs, 
quartz claims and Apaches. 

“ Did you ever have any very close calls ? ” I asked. 

He ruminated a few moments, refilled his pipe with 
some awful tobacco, and told the following experience: 

“ In the time of Geronimo I was living just about 
where I do now; and that was just about in line with 
the raiding. You see, Geronimo, and Ju, and old 
102 


THE OLE VIRGINIA 


Loco used to pile out of the reservation at Camp 
Apache, raid south to the line, slip over into Mexico 
when the soldiers got too promiscuous, and raid there 
until they got ready to come back. Then there was 
always a big medicine talk. Says Geronimo : 

“ ‘ I am tired of the warpath. I will come back 
from Mexico with all my warriors, if you will escort 
me with soldiers and protect my people/ 

“ * All right,’ says the General, being only too glad 
to get him back at all. 

“ So, then, in ten minutes there wouldn’t be a buck 
in camp, but next morning they shows up again, each 
with about fifty head of hosses. 

“ ‘ Where’ d you get those hosses?’ asks the Gen- 
eral, suspicious. 

“ * Had ’em pastured in the hills,’ answers Ger- 
onimo. 

“ ‘ I can’t take all those hosses with me ; I believe 
they’re stolen!’ says the General. 

“ ‘ My people cannot go without their hosses,’ says 
Geronimo. 

“ So, across the line they goes, and back to the reser- 
vation. In about a week there’s fifty-two frantic 
Greasers wanting to know where’s their hosses. The 
army is nothing but an importer of stolen stock, and 
knows it, and can’t help it. 

“Well, as I says, I’m between Camp Apache and 
the Mexican line, so that every raiding party goes 
right on past me. The point is that I’m a thousand 
103 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


feet or so above the valley, and the renegades is in 
such a hurry about that time that they never stop to 
climb up and collect me. Often I’ve watched them 
trailing down the valley in a cloud of dust. Then, in 
a day or two, a squad of soldiers would come up and 
camp at my spring for a while. They used to send 
soldiers to guard every water hole in the country so 
the renegades couldn’t get water. After a while, 
from not being bothered none, I got to thinking I 
wasn’t worth while with them. 

“ Me and Johnny Hooper were pecking away at the 
Ole Virginia mine then. We’d got down about sixty 
feet, all timbered, and was thinking of crosscutting. 
One day Johnny went to town, and that same day I 
got in a hurry and left my gun at camp. 

“ I worked all the morning down at the bottom of 
the shaft, and when I see by the sun it was getting 
along towards noon, I put in three good shots, tamped 
’em down, lit the fuses, and started to climb out. 

“ It ain’t noways pleasant to light a fuse in a shaft, 
and then have to climb out a fifty- foot ladder, with it 
burning behind you. I never did get used to it. You 
keep thinking, ‘ Now, suppose there’s a flaw in that 
fuse, or something, and she goes off in six seconds 
instead of two minutes? Where’ll you be then?’ 
It would give you a good boost towards your home on 
high, anyway. 

“ So I climbed fast, and stuck my head out the top 
without looking — and then I froze solid enough. 

104 


THE OLE VIRGINIA 


There, about fifty feet away, climbing up the hill on 
mighty tired hosses, was a dozen of the ugliest 
Chiricahuas you ever don’t want to meet, and in ad- 
dition a Mexican renegade named Maria, who was 
worse than any of ’em. I see at once their hosses was 
tired out, and they had a notion of camping at my water 
hole, not knowing nothing about the Ole Virginia mine. 

“ For two bits I’d have let go all holts and dropped 
backwards, trusting to my thick head for easy lighting. 
Then I heard a little fizz and sputter from below. At 
that my hair riz right up so I could feel the breeze 
blow under my hat. For about six seconds I stood 
there like an imbecile, grinning amiably. Then one 
of the Chiricahuas made a sort of grunt, and I sabed 
that they’d seen the original exhibit your Uncle Jim 
was making of himself. 

“ Then that fuse gave another sputter and one of 
the Apaches said, ‘ Un dah.’ That means ‘ white 
man.’ It was harder to turn my head than if I’d had 
a stiff neck; but I managed to do it, and I see that my 
ore dump wasn’t more than ten foot away. I mighty 
near overjumped it; and the next I knew I was on one 
side of it and those Apaches on the other. Probably 
I flew; leastways I don’t seem to remember jumping. 

“ That didn’t seem to do me much good. The ren- 
egades were grinning and laughing to think how easy 
a thing they had ; and I couldn’t rightly think up any 
arguments against the notion — at least from their 
standpoint. They were chattering away to each other 
105 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


in Mexican for the benefit of Maria. Oh, they had 
me all distributed, down to my suspender buttons! 
And me squatting behind that ore dump about as for- 
midable as a brush rabbit ! 

“ Then, all at once, one of my shots went off down 
in the shaft. 

“‘Boom!’ says she, plenty big; and a slather of 
rocks and stones come out of the mouth, and began to 
dump down promiscuous on the scenery. I got one 
little one in the shoulder blade, and found time to wish 
my ore dump had a roof. But those renegades caught 
it square in the thick of trouble. One got knocked 
out entirely for a minute, by a nice piece of country 
rock in the head. 

“ ‘ Otra vez! ’ yells I, which means * again/ 

“ ‘ Boom ! ’ goes the Ole Virginia prompt as an 
answer. 

“ I put in my time dodging, but when I gets a chance 
to look, the Apaches has all got to cover and is look- 
ing scared. 

“ ‘ Otra vez ! ’ yells I again. 

“ ‘ Boom ! ’ says the Ole Virginia. 

“ This was the biggest shot of the lot, and she surely 
cut loose. I ought to have been halfway up the hill 
watching things from a safe distance, but I wasn’t. 
Lucky for me the shaft was a little on the drift, so she 
didn’t quite shoot my way. But she distributed about 
a ton over those renegades. They sort of half got 
to their feet uncertain. 

io 6 


THE OLE VIRGINIA 


** * Otra vez!’ yells I once more, as bold as if I 
could keep her shooting all day. 

“ It was just a cold, raw blazer; and if it didn’t go 
through I could see me as an Apache parlor ornament. 
But it did. Those Chiricahuas give one yell and 
skipped. It was surely a funny sight, after they got 
aboard their war ponies, to see them trying to dig out 
on horses too tired to trot. 

“ I didn’t stop to get all the laughs, though. In 
fact, I give one jump off that ledge, and I lit a-running. 
A quarter-hoss couldn’t have beat me to that shack. 
There I grabbed my good old gun, old Meat-in-the-pot, 
and made a climb for the tall country.” 

Uncle Jim stopped with an air of finality, and began 
lazily to refill his pipe. From the open mud fireplace 
he picked a coal. Outside, the rain, faithful to the 
prophecy of the wide-ringed sun, beat fitfully against 
the roof. 

“ That was the closest call I ever had,” said he at 


last. 



V. — The Weight of Obligation 1 

By Rex Beach 

HIS is the story of a burden, the tale of a load 



that irked a strong man’s shoulders. To 


those who do not know the North it may 


seem strange, but to those who understand the humors 
of men in solitude, and the extravagant vagaries that 
steal in upon their minds, as fog drifts with the night, 
it will not appear unusual. There are spirits in the 
wilderness, eerie forces which play pranks ; some droll 
or whimsical, others grim. 

Johnny Cantwell and Mortimer Grant were part- 
ners, trail mates, brothers in soul if not in blood. The 
ebb and flood of frontier life had brought them to- 
gether, its hardships had united them until they were 
as one. They were something of a mystery to each 
other, neither having surrendered all his confidence, 
and because of this they retained their mutual attrac- 
tion. They had met by accident, but they remained 
together by desire. 

The spirit of adventure bubbled merrily within them, 

1 From The Crimson Garden. Copyright, 1911, 1912, 1913, 1916, 
by Harper and Brothers. Reprinted by special permission of 
publisher and author. 


I08 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


and it led them into curious byways. It was this which 
sent them northward from the States in the dead of 
winter, on the heels of the Stony River strike; it was 
this which induced them to land at Katmai instead of 
Illiamna, whither their land journey should have com- 
menced. 

“ There are two routes over the coast range,” the 
captain of the Dora told them, “ and only two. Il- 
liamna Pass is low and easy, but the distance is longer 
than by way of Katmai. I can land you at either 
place.” 

“ Katmai is pretty tough, isn't it?” Grant inquired. 

“ We've understood it’s the worst pass in Alaska.” 
Cantwell’s eyes were eager. 

“ It’s awful ! Nobody travels it except natives, and 
they don’t like it. Now, Illiamna — ” 

“ We’ll try Katmai. Eh, Mort? ” 

“ Sure ! They don’t come hard enough for us, Cap. 
We’ll see if it’s as bad as it’s painted.” 

So, one gray January morning they were landed on 
a frozen beach, their outfit was flung ashore through 
the surf, the lifeboat pulled away, and the Dora disap- 
peared after a farewell toot of her whistle. Their 
last glimpse of her showed the captain waving good-by 
and the purser flapping a red tablecloth at them from 
the after-deck. 

“ Cheerful place, this,” Grant remarked, as he noted 
the desolate surroundings of dune and hillside. 

The beach itself was black and raw where the surf 
109 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


washed it, but elsewhere all was white, save for the 
thickets of alder and willow which protruded nakedly. 
The bay was little more than a hollow scooped out of 
the Alaskan range ; along the foothills behind there was 
a belt of spruce and cottonwood and birch. It was 
a lonely and apparently unpeopled wilderness in which 
they had been set down. 

“ Seems good to be back in the North again, doesn’t 
it? ” said Cantwell, cheerily. “ I’m tired of the booze, 
and the street cars, and the dames, and all that civil- 
ized stuff. I’d rather be broke in Alaska — with you 
— than a banker’s son, back home.” 

Soon a globular Russian half-breed, the Katmai 
trader, appeared among the dunes, and with him were 
some native villagers. That night tjie partners slept 
in a snug log cabin, the roof of which was chained 
down with old ships’ cables. Petellin, the fat little 
trader, explained that roofs in Katmai had a way of 
sailing off to seaward when the wind blew. 
He listened to their plan of crossing the divide and 
nodded. 

It could be done, of course, he agreed, but they were 
foolish to try it, when the Illiamna route was open. 
Still, now that they were here, he would find dogs for 
them, and a guide. The village hunters were out after 
meat, however, and until they returned the white men 
would need to wait in patience. 

There followed several days of idleness, during 
which Cantwell and Grant amused themselves around 


no 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


the village, teasing the squaws, playing games with the 
boys, and flirting harmlessly with the girls, one of 
whom, in particular, was not unattractive. She was 
perhaps three-quarters Aleut, the other quarter being 
plain coquette, and, having been educated at the town 
of Kodiak, she knew the ways and the wiles of the 
white man. 

Cantwell approached her, and she met his extrava- 
gant advances more than halfway. They were getting 
along nicely together when Grant, in a spirit of fun, 
entered the game and won her fickle smiles for him- 
self. He joked his partner unmercifully, and Johnny 
accepted defeat gracefully, never giving the matter a 
second thought. 

When the hunters returned, dogs were bought, a 
guide was hired, and, a week after landing, the friends 
were camped at timber line awaiting a favorable mo- 
ment for their dash across the range. Above them, 
white hillsides rose in irregular leaps to the gash in 
the saw-toothed barrier which formed the pass; below 
them a short valley led down to Katmai and the sea. 
The day was bright, the air clear, nevertheless after the 
guide had stared up at the peaks for a time he shook 
his head, then reentered the tent and lay down. The 
mountains were “ smoking ” ; from their tops streamed 
a gossamer veil which the travelers knew to be drifting 
snow clouds carried by the wind. It meant delay, but 
they were patient. 

They were up and going on the following morning, 
hi 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


however, with the Indian in the lead. There was no 
trail; the hills were steep; in places they were forced 
to unload the sled and hoist their outfit by means of 
ropes, and as they mounted higher the snow deepened. 
It lay like loose sand, only lighter; it shoved ahead of 
the sled in a feathery mass ; the dogs wallowed in it and 
were unable to pull, hence the greater part of the work 
devolved upon the men. Once above the foothills and 
into the range proper, the going became more level, 
but the snow remained knee-deep. 

The Indian broke trail stolidly ; the partners strained 
at the sled, which hung back like a leaden thing. By 
afternoon the dogs had become disheartened and re- 
fused to heed the whip. There was neither fuel nor 
running water, and therefore the party did not pause 
for luncheon. The men were sweating profusely from 
their exertions and had long since become parched 
with thirst, but the dry snow was like chalk and 
scoured their throats. 

Cantwell was the first to show the effects of his un- 
usual exertions, for not only had he assumed a lion’s 
share of the work, but the last few months of easy liv- 
ing had softened his muscles, and in consequence his 
vitality was quickly spent. His undergarments were 
drenched; he was fearfully dry inside; a terrible thirst 
seemed to penetrate his whole body; he was forced to 
rest frequently. 

Grant eyed him with some concern, finally inquiring, 
“ Feel bad, Johnny?” 


1 12 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


Cantwell nodded. Their fatigue made both men 
economical of language. 

“ What’s the matter? ” 

“ Thirsty ! ” The former could barely speak. 

“ There won’t be any water till we get across. 
You’ll have to stand it.” 

They resumed their duties ; the Indian “ swish- 
swished ” ahead, as if wading through a sea of swan’s- 
down ; the dogs followed listlessly ; the partners leaned 
against the stubborn load. 

A faint breath finally came out of the north, causing 
Grant and the guide to study the sky anxiously. Cant- 
well was too weary to heed the increasing cold. The 
snow on the slopes above began to move; here and 
there, on exposed ridges, it rose in clouds and puffs ; the 
cleancut outlines of the hills became obscured as by a 
fog; the languid wind bit cruelly. 

After a time Johnny fell back upon the sled and ex- 
claimed : “ I’m — all in, Mort. Don’t seem to have 

the — guts.” He was pale, his eyes were tortured. 
He scooped a mitten full of snow and raised it to his 
lips, then spat it out, still dry. 

“ Here ! Brace up ! ” In a panic of apprehension 
at this collapse Grant shook him ; he had never known 
Johnny to fail like this. “ Take a drink; it’ll do you 
good.” He drew a bottle from one of the dunnage 
bags and Cantwell seized it avidly. It was wet; it 
would quench his thirst, he thought. Before Mort 
could check him he had drunk a third of the contents. 
113 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


The effect was almost instantaneous, for Cantwell’s 
stomach was empty and his tissues seemed to absorb 
the liquor like a dry sponge ; his fatigue fell away, he 
became suddenly strong and vigorous again. But be- 
fore he had gone a hundred yards the reaction fol- 
lowed. First his mind grew thick, then his limbs be- 
came unmanageable and his muscles flabby. He was 
drunk. Yet it was a strange and dangerous intoxica- 
tion, against which he struggled desperately. He 
fought it for perhaps a quarter of a mile before it 
mastered him; then he gave up. 

Both men knew that stimulants are never taken on 
the trail, but they had never stopped to reason why, 
and even now they did not attribute Johnny’s break- 
down to the brandy. After a while he stumbled and 
fell, then, the cool snow being grateful to his face, he 
sprawled there motionless until Mort dragged him to 
the sled. He stared at his partner in perplexity and 
laughed foolishly. The wind was increasing, dark- 
ness was near, they had not yet reached the Bering 
slope. 

Something in the drunken man’s face frightened 
Grant and, extracting a ship’s biscuit from the grub 
box, he said, hurriedly: “ Here, Johnny. Get some- 
thing under your belt, quick.” 

Cantwell obediently munched the hard cracker, but 
there was no moisture on his tongue; his throat was 
paralyzed; the crumbs crowded themselves from the 
corners of his lips. He tried with limber fingers to 
114 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 

stuff them down, or to assist the muscular action of 
swallowing, but finally expelled them in a cloud. Mort 
drew the parka hood over his partner’s head, for the 
wind cut like a scythe and the dogs were turning tail 
to it, digging holes in the snow for protection. The 
air about them was like yeast; the light was fading. 

The Indian snowshoed his way back, advising a 
quick camp until the storm abated, but to this sugges- 
tion Grant refused to listen, knowing only too well the 
peril of such a course. Nor did he dare take Johnny 
on the sled, since the fellow was half asleep already, 
but instead whipped up the dogs and urged his com- 
panion to follow as best he could. 

When Cantwell fell, for a second time, he returned, 
dragged him forward, and tied his wrists firmly, yet 
loosely, to the load. 

The storm was pouring over them now, like water 
out of a spout; it seared and blinded them; its touch 
was like that of a flame. Nevertheless they struggled 
on into the smother, making what headway they could. 
The Indian led, pulling at the end of a rope; Grant 
strained at the sled and hoarsely encouraged the dogs ; 
Cantwell stumbled and lurched in the rear like an un- 
willing prisoner. When he fell his companion lifted 
him, then beat him, cursed him, tried in every way to 
rouse him from his lethargy. 

After an interminable time they found they were de- 
scending and this gave them heart to plunge ahead more 
rapidly. The dogs began to trot as the sled overran 

US 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


them; they rushed blindly into gullies, fetching up at 
the bottom in a tangle, and Johnny followed in a nerve- 
less, stupefied condition. He was dragged like a sack 
of flour for his legs were limp and he lacked muscular 
control, but every dash, every fall, every quick descent 
drove the sluggish blood through his veins and cleared 
his brain momentarily. Such moments were fleeting, 
however; much of the time his mind was a blank, and 
it was only by a mechanical effort that he fought off 
unconsciousness. 

He had vague memories of many beatings at Mort’s 
hands, of the slippery clean-swept ice of a stream over 
which he limply skidded, of being carried into a tent 
where a candle flickered and a stove roared. Grant 
was holding something hot to his lips, and then — 

It was morning. He was weak and sick; he felt 
as if he had awakened from a hideous dream. “ I 
played out, didn’t I ? ” he queried, wonderingly. 

“ You sure did,” Grant laughed. “ It was a tight 
squeak, old boy. I never thought I’d get you through.” 

“Played out! I — can’t understand it.” Cantwell 
prided himself on his strength and stamina, therefore 
the truth was unbelievable. He and Mort had long 
i been partners, they had given and taken much at each 
! other’s hands, but this was something altogether dif- 
1 ferent. Grant had saved his life, at risk of his own; 
the older man’s endurance had been the greater and he 
had used it to good advantage. It embarrassed Johnny 
tremendously to realize that he had proved unequal to 
116 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


his share of the work, for he had never before experi- 
enced such an obligation. He apologized repeatedly 
during the few days he lay sick, and meanwhile Mort 
waited upon him like a mother. 

Cantwell was relieved when at last they had aban- 
doned camp, changed guides at the next village, and 
were on their way along the coast, for somehow he felt 
very sensitive about his collapse. He was, in fact, ex- 
tremely ashamed of himself. 

Once he had fully recovered he had no further 
trouble, but soon rounded into fit condition and showed 
no effects of his ordeal. Day after day he and Mort 
traveled through the solitudes, their isolation broken 
only by occasional glimpses of native villages, where 
they rested briefly and renewed their supply of dog 
feed. 

But although the younger man was now as well and 
strong as ever, he was uncomfortably conscious that 
his trail mate regarded him as the weaker of the two 
and shielded him in many ways. Grant performed 
most of the unpleasant tasks, and occasionally cautioned 
Johnny about overdoing. This protective attitude at 
first amused, then offended Cantwell, it galled him un- 
til he was upon the point of voicing his resentment, but 
reflected that he had no right to object, for, judging by 
past performances, he had proved his inferiority. This 
uncomfortable realization forever arose to prevent open 
rebellion, but he asserted himself secretly by robbing 
Grant of his self-appointed tasks. He rose first in the 
ii 7 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


mornings, he did the cooking, he lengthened his turns 
ahead of the dogs, he mended harness after the day’s 
hike had ended. Of course the older man objected, 
and for a time they had a good-natured rivalry as to 
who should work and who should rest — only it was 
not quite so good-natured on Cantwell’s part as he 
made it appear. 

Mort broke out in friendly irritation one day : 
“ Don’t try to do everything, Johnny. Remember I’m 
no cripple.” 

“ Humph ! You proved that. I guess it’s up to 
me to do your work.” 

“ Oh, forget that day on the pass, can’t you? ” 

Johnny grunted a second time, and from his tone it 
was evident that he would never forget, unpleasant 
though the memory remained. Sensing his sullen re- 
sentment, the other tried to rally him, but made a bad 
job of it. The humor of men in the open is not deli- 
cate ; their wit and their words become coarsened in di- 
rect proportion as they revert to the primitive: it is 
one effect of the solitudes. 

Grant spoke extravagantly, mockingly, of his own 
superiority in a way which ordinarily would have 
brought a smile to Cantwell’s lips, but the latter did not 
smile. He taunted Johnny humorously on his lack of 
physical prowess, his lack of good looks and manly 
qualities — something which had never failed to re- 
sult in a friendly exchange of badinage; he even teased 
him about his defeat with the Katmai girl. 

118 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


Cantwell did respond finally, but afterward he found 
himself wondering if Mort could have been in earnest. 
He dismissed the thought with some impatience. But 
men on the trail have too much time for their 
thoughts; there is nothing in the monotonous routine 
of the day’s work to distract them, so the partner who 
had played out dwelt more and more upon his debt 
and upon his friend’s easy assumption of preeminence. 
The weight of obligation began to chafe him, lightly at 
first, but with ever-increasing discomfort. He began to 
think that Grant honestly considered himself the bet- 
ter man, merely because chance had played into his 
hands. 

It was silly, even childish, to dwell on the subject, 
he reflected, and yet he could not banish it from his 
mind. It was always before him, in one form or an- 
other. He felt the strength in his lean muscles, and 
sneered at the thought that Mort should be deceived. 
If it came to a physical test he felt sure he could break 
his slighter partner with his bare hands, and as for en- 
durance — well, he was hungry for a chance to demon- 
strate it. 

They talked little; men seldom converse in the 
wastes, for there is something about the silence of the 
wilderness which discourages speech. And no land 
is so grimly silent, so hushed and soundless, as the 
frozen North. For days they marched through deso- 
lation, without glimpse of human habitation, without 
sight of track or trail, without sound of a human voice 
119 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


to break the monotony. There was no game in the 
country, with the exception of an occasional bird or 
rabbit, nothing but the white hills, the fringe of alder 
tops along the watercourses, and the thickets of gnarled, 
unhealthy spruce in the smothered valleys. 

Their destination was a mysterious stream at the 
headwaters of the unmapped Kuskokwim, where rumor 
said there was gold, and whither they feared other men 
were hastening from the mining country far to the 
north. 

Now it is a penalty of the White Country that men 
shall think of women; Cantwell began to brood upon 
the Katmai girl, for she was the last; her eyes were 
haunting and distance had worked its usual enchant- 
ment. He reflected that Mort had shouldered him 
aside and won her favor, then boasted of it. Johnny 
awoke one night with a dream of her, and lay quivering. 

“ She was only a squaw,” he said, half aloud. “If 
I’d really tried — ” 

Grant lay beside him, snoring, the heat of their 
bodies intermingled. The waking man tried to com- 
pose himself, but his partner’s stertorous breathing ir- 
ritated him beyond measure; for a long time he re- 
mained motionless, staring into the gray blurr of the 
tent top. He had played out. He owed his life to 
the man who had cheated him of the Katmai girl, and 
that man knew it. He had become a weak, helpless 
thing, dependent upon another’s strength, and that 
other now accepted his superiority as a matter of 
120 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


course. The obligation was insufferable, and — it was 
unjust. The North had played him a devilish trick, 
it had betrayed him, it had bound him to his benefactor 
with chains of gratitude which were irksome. Had 
they been real chains they could have galled him no 
more than at this moment. 

As time passed the men spoke less frequently to 
each other. Grant joshed his mate roughly, once or 
twice, masking beneath an assumption of jocularity 
his own vague irritation at the change that had come 
over them. It was as if he had probed at an open 
wound with clumsy fingers. 

Cantwell had by this time assumed most of those 
petty camp tasks which provoke tired trailers, those 
humdrum duties which are so trying to exhausted 
nerves, and of course they wore upon him as they wear 
upon every man. But, once he had taken them over, 
he began to resent Grant’s easy relinquishment; it 
rankled him to realize how willingly the other allowed 
him to do the cooking, the dish-washing, the fire-build- 
ing, the bed-making. Little monotonies of this kind 
form the hardest part of winter travel, they are the 
rocks upon which friendships founder and partner- 
ships are wrecked. Out on the trail, nature equalizes 
the work to a great extent, and no man can shirk un- 
duly, but in camp, inside the cramped confines of a 
tent pitched on boughs laid over the snow, it is very 
different. There one must busy himself while the 
other rests and keeps his legs out of the way if possible. 

121 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


One man sits on the bedding at the rear of the shelter, 
and shivers, while the other squats over a tantalizing 
fire of green wood, blistering his face and parboiling 
his limbs inside his sweaty clothing. Dishes must be 
passed, food divided, and it is poor food, poorly pre- 
pared at best. Sometimes men criticize and voice 
longings for better grub and better cooking. Remarks 
of this kind have been known to result in tragedies, 
bitter words and flaming curses — then, perhaps, wild 
actions, memories of which the later years can never 
erase. 

It is but one prank of the wilderness, one grim man- 
ifestation of its silent forces. 

Had Grant been unable to do his part Cantwell would 
have willingly accepted the added burden, but Mort was 
able, he was nimble and “ handy,” he was the better 
cook of the two; in fact, he was the better man in every 
way — or so he believed. Cantwell sneered at the last 
thought, and the memory of his debt was like bitter 
medicine. 

His resentment — in reality nothing more than a 
phase of insanity begot of isolation and silence — 
could not help but communicate itself to his compan- 
ion, and there resulted a mutual antagonism, which 
grew into a dislike, then festered into something more, 
something strange, reasonless, yet terribly vivid and 
amazingly potent for evil. Neither man ever men- 
tioned it — their tongues were clenched between their 
teeth and they held themselves in check with harsh 
1 22 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


hands — but it was constantly in their minds, never- 
theless. No man who has not suffered the manifold ir- 
ritations of such an intimate association can appreciate 
the gnawing canker of animosity like this. It was 
dangerous because there was no relief from it : the two 
were bound together as by gyves; they shared each 
other’s every action and every plan; they trod in each 
other’s tracks, slept in the same bed, ate from the same 
plate. They were like prisoners ironed to the same 
staple. 

Each fought the obsession in his own way, but it is 
hard to fight the impalpable, hence their sick fancies 
grew in spite of themselves. Their minds needed food 
to prey upon, but found none. Each began to criticize 
the other silently, to sneer at his weaknesses, to medi- 
tate derisively upon his peculiarities. After a time 
they no longer resisted the advance of these poisonous 
thoughts, but welcomed it. 

On more than one occasion the embers of their wrath 
were upon the point of bursting into flame, but each 
realized that the first ill-considered word would serve 
to slip the leash from those demons that were 
straining to go free, and so managed to restrain him- 
self. 

The crisis came one crisp morning when a dog team 
whirled around a bend in the river and a white man 
hailed them. He was the mail carrier, on his way out 
from Nome, and he brought news of the “ inside.” 

“Where are you boys bound for?” he inquired 
123 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


when greetings were over and gossip of the trail had 
passed. 

“ We’re going to the Stony River strike,” Grant told 
him. 

“ Stony River? Up the Kuskokwim?” 

“ Yes!” 

The mail man laughed. “ Can you beat that ? 
Ain’t you heard about Stony River?” 

“ No!” 

“ Why, it’s a fake — no such place.” 

There was a silence; the partners avoided each 
other’s eyes. 

“ MacDonald, the fellow that started it, is on his 
way to Dawson. There’s a gang after him, too, and 
if he’s caught it’ll go hard with him. He wrote the let- 
ters — to himself — and spread the news just to raise 
a grubstake. He cleaned up big before they got onto 
him. He peddled his tips for real money.” 

“ Yes ! ” Grant spoke quietly. “ Johnny bought 
one. That’s what brought us from Seattle. We went 
out on the last boat and figured we’d come in from this 
side before the break-up. So — fake!” 

“Gee! You fellers bit good.” The mail carrier 
shook his head. “Well! You’d better keep going 
now ; you’ll get to Nome before the season opens. Bet- 
ter take dogfish from Bethel — it’s four bits a pound 
on the Yukon. Sorry I didn’t hit your camp last 
night; we’d ’a’ had a visit. Tell the gang that you saw 
me.” He shook hands ceremoniously, yelled at his 
124 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 

panting dogs, and went swiftly on his way, waving a 
mitten on high as he vanished around the next bend. 

The partners watched him go, then Grant turned to 
Johnny, and repeated: “Fake! MacDonald stung 
you.’' 

Cantwell’s face went as white as the snow behind 
him, his eyes blazed. “ Why did you tell him I bit? ” 
he demanded harshly. 

“Hunh! Didn't you bite? Two thousand miles 
afoot; three months of Hades; for nothing. That’s 
biting some.” 

“ Well! ” The speaker’s face was convulsed, and 
Grant’s flamed with an answering anger. They glared 
at each other for a moment. “ Don’t blame me. You 
fell for it, too.” 

“ I ” Mort checked his rushing words. 

“ Yes, you ! Now, what are you going to do about 
it? Welsh?” 

“ I’m going through to Nome.” The sight of his 
partner’s rage had set Mort to shaking with a furious 
desire to fly at his throat, but fortunately, he retained a 
spark of sanity. 

“ Then shut up, and quit chewing the rag. You — 
talk too much.” 

Mort’s eyes were bloodshot; they fell upon the car- 
bine under the sled lashings, and lingered there, then 
wavered. He opened his lips, reconsidered, spoke 
softly to the team, then lifted the heavy dog whip and 
smote the Malemutes with all his strength. 

125 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


The men resumed their journey without further 
words, but each was cursing inwardly. 

“ So ! I talk too much,” Grant thought. The ac- 
cusation struck in his mind and he determined to speak 
no more. 

“ He blames me,” Cantwell reflected, bitterly. 
“ I’m in wrong again and he couldn’t keep his mouth 
shut. A fine partner, he is! ” 

All day they plodded on, neither trusting himself 
to speak. They ate their evening meal like mutes ; they 
avoided each others eyes. Even the guide noticed the 
change and looked on curiously. 

There were two robes and these the partners shared 
nightly, but their hatred had grown so during the past 
few hours that the thought of lying side by side, limb 
to limb, was distasteful. 

Yet neither dared suggest a division of the bedding, 
for that would have brought further words and re- 
sulted in the crash which they longed for, but feared. 
They stripped off their furs, and lay down beside each 
other with the same repugnance they would have felt 
had there been a serpent in the couch. 

This unending malevolent silence became terrible. 
The strain of it increased, for each man now had some- 
thing definite to cherish in the words and the looks that 
had passed. They divided the camp work with scrup- 
ulous nicety, each man waited upon himself and asked 
no favors. The knowledge of his debt forever chafed 
126 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 

Cantwell ; Grant resented his companion’s lack of grat- 
itude. 

Of course they spoke occasionally — it was beyond 
human endurance to remain entirely dumb — but they 
conversed in monosyllables, about trivial things, and 
their voices were throaty, as if the effort choked them. 
Meanwhile they continued to glow inwardly at a white 
heat. 

Cantwell no longer felt the desire merely to match 
his strength against Grant’s ; the estrangement had be- 
come too wide for that ; a physical victory would have 
been flat and tasteless ; he craved some deeper satisfac- 
tion. He began to think of the ax — just how or when 
or why he never knew. It was a thin-bladed, polished 
thing of frosty steel, and the more he thought of it the 
stronger grew his impulse to rid himself once for all 
of that presence which exasperated him. It would be 
very easy, he reasoned ; a sudden blow, with the weight 
of his shoulders behind it — he fancied he could feel 
the bit sink into Grant’s flesh, cleaving bone and car- 
tilages in its course — a slanting downward stroke, 
aimed at the neck where it joined the body, and he 
would be forever satisfied. It would be ridiculously 
simple. He practiced in the gloom of evening as he 
felled spruce trees for firewood; he guarded the ax 
religiously; it became a living th : ng which urged 
him on to violence. He saw it standing by the tent fly 
when he closed his eyes to sleep ; he dreamed of it ; he 
sought it out with his eyes when he first awoke. He 
127 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


slid it loosely under the sled lashings every morning, 
thinking that its use could not long be delayed. 

As for Grant, the carbine dwelt forever in his mind, 
and his fingers itched for it. He secretly slipped a 
cartridge into the chamber, and when an occasional 
ptarmigan offered itself for a target he saw the white 
spot on the breast of Johnny’s reindeer parka, dan- 
cing ahead of the Lyman bead. 

The solitude had done its work; the North had 
played its grim comedy to the final curtain, making 
sport of men’s affections and turning love to rankling 
hate. But into the mind of each man crept a certain 
craftiness. Each longed to strike, but feared to face 
the consequences. It was lonesome, here among the 
white hills and the deathly silences, yet they reflected 
that it would be still more lonesome if they were left 
to keep step with nothing more substantial than a 
memory. They determined, therefore, to wait until 
civilization was nearer, meanwhile rehearsing the mo- 
ment they knew was inevitable. Over and over in 
their thoughts each of them enacted the scene, ending 
it always with the picture of a prostrate man in a 
patch of trampled snow which grew crimson as the 
other gloated. 

They paused at Bethel Mission long enough to load 
with dried salmon, then made the ninety-mile portage 
over lake and tundra to the Yukon. There they got 
their first touch of the “ inside ” world. They camped 
in a barabora where white men had slept a few nights 
128 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


before, and heard their own language spoken by native 
tongues. The time was growing short now, and they 
purposely dismissed their guide, knowing that the trail 
was plain from there on. When they hitched up, on 
the next morning, Cantwell placed the ax, bit down, 
between the tarpaulin and the sled rail, leaving the 
helve projecting where his hand could reach it. Grant 
thrust the barrel of the rifle beneath a lashing, with 
the butt close by the handle-bars, and it was loaded. 

A mile from the village they were overtaken by 
an Indian and his squaw, traveling light behind hungry 
dogs. The natives attached themselves to the white 
men and hung stubbornly to their heels, taking ad- 
vantage of their tracks. When night came they 
camped alongside, in the hope of food. They an- 
nounced that they were bound for St. Michaels, and 
in spite of every effort to shake them off they remained 
close behind the partners until that point was reached. 

At St. Michaels there were white men, practically 
the first Johnny and Mort had encountered since land- 
ing at Katmai, and for a day at least they were sane. 
But there were still three hundred miles to be traveled, 
three hundred miles of solitude and haunting thoughts. 
Just as they were about to start, Cantwell came upon 
Grant and the A. C. agent, and heard his name pro- 
nounced, also the word “ Katmai.” He noted that 
Mort fell silent at his approach, and instantly his anger 
blazed afresh. He decided that the latter had been 
telling the story of their experience on the pass and 
129 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


boasting of his service. So much the better, he 
thought, in a blind rage ; that which he planned doing 
would appear all the more like an accident, for who 
would dream that a man could kill the person to 
whom he owed his life? 

That night he waited for a chance. 

They were camped in a dismal hut on a wind-swept 
shore; they were alone. But Grant was waiting also, 
it seemed. They lay down beside each other, osten- 
sibly to sleep; their limbs touched; the warmth from 
their bodies intermingled, but they did not close their 
eyes. 

They were up and away early, with Nome drawing 
rapidly nearer. They had skirted an ocean, foot by 
foot; Bering Sea lay behind them, now, and its north- 
ern shore swung westward to their goal. For two 
months they had lived in silent animosity, feeding on 
bitter food while their elbows rubbed. 

Noon found them floundering through one of those 
unheralded storms which make coast travel so hazard- 
ous. The morning had turned off gray, the sky was of 
a leaden hue which blended perfectly with the snow 
underfoot, there was no horizon, it was impossible to 
see more than a few yards in any direction. The trail 
soon became obliterated and their eyes began to play 
tricks. For all they could distinguish, they might 
have been suspended in space ; they seemed to be tread- 
ing the measures of an endless dance in the center of 
a whirling cloud. Of course it was cold, for the wind 
130 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


off the open sea was damp, but they were not men to 
turn back. 

They soon discovered that their difficulty lay not in 
facing the storm, but in holding to the trail. That 
narrow, two-foot causeway, packed by a winter’s 
travel and frozen into a ribbon of ice by a winter’s 
frosts, afforded their only avenue of progress, for the 
moment they left it the sled plowed into the loose snow, 
well-nigh disappearing and bringing the dogs to a 
standstill. It was the duty of the driver, in such case, 
to wallow forward, right the load if necessary, and 
lift it back into place. These mishaps were forever 
occurring, for it was impossible to distinguish the 
trail beneath its soft covering. However, if the 
driver’s task was hard it was no more trying than that 
of the man ahead, who was compelled to feel out and 
explore the ridge of hardened snow and ice with 
his feet, after the fashion of a man walking a plank 
in the dark. Frequently he lunged into the drifts with 
one foot, or both; his glazed mukluk soles slid about, 
causing him to bestride the invisible hogback, or again 
his legs crossed awkwardly, throwing him off his bal- 
ance. At times he wandered away from the path en- 
tirely and had to search it out again. These exertions 
were very wearing and they were dangerous, also, for 
joints are easily dislocated, muscles twisted, and ten- 
dons strained. 

Hour after hour the march continued, unrelieved 
by any change, unbroken by any speck or spot of color. 

131 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


The nerves of their eyes, wearied by constant near- 
sighted peering at the snow, began to jump so that 
vision became untrustworthy. Both travelers appre- 
ciated the necessity of clinging to the trail, for, once 
they lost it, they knew they might wander about indefi- 
nitely until they chanced to regain it or found their 
way to the shore, while always to seaward was the 
menace of open water, of air holes, or cracks which 
might gape beneath their feet like jaws. Immersion 
in this temperature, no matter how brief, meant death. 

The monotony of progress through this unreal, 
leaden world became almost unbearable. The re- 
peated strainings and twistings they suffered in walk- 
ing the slippery ridge reduced the men to weariness; 
their legs grew clumsy and their feet uncertain. Had 
they found a camping place they would have stopped, 
but they dared not forsake the thin thread that linked 
them with safety to go and look for one, not knowing 
where the shore lay. In storms of this kind men 
have lain in their sleeping bags for days within a 
stone’s throw of a road-house or village. Bodies have 
been found within a hundred yards of shelter after 
blizzards have abated. 

Cantwell and Grant had no choice, therefore, except 
to bore into the welter of drifting flakes. 

It was late in the afternoon when the latter met 
with an accident. Johnny, who had taken a spell at 
the rear, heard him cry out, saw him stagger, struggle 
to hold his footing, then sink into the snow. The dogs 
I3 2 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


paused instantly, lay down, and began to strip the ice 
pellets from between their toes. 

Cantwell spoke harshly, leaning upon the handle- 
bars: “Well! What’s the idea?” 

It was the longest sentence of the day. 

“ I’ve — hurt myself.” Mort’s voice was thin and 
strange; he raised himself to a sitting posture, and 
reached beneath his parka, then lay back weakly. He 
writhed, his face was twisted with pain. He contin- 
ued to lie there, doubled into a knot of suffering. A 
groan was wrenched from between his teeth. 

“Hurt? How?” Johnny inquired, dully. 

It seemed very ridiculous to see that strong man 
kicking around in the snow. 

“ I’ve ripped something loose — here.” Mort’s 
palms were pressed in upon his groin, his fingers were 
clutching something. “ Ruptured — I guess.” He 
tried again to rise, but sank back. His cap had fallen 
off and his forehead glistened with sweat. 

Cantwell went forward and lifted him. It was the 
first time in many days that their hands had touched, 
and the sensation affected him strangely. He strug- 
gled to repress a devilish mirth at the thought that 
Grant had played out — it amounted to that and noth- 
ing less; the trail had delivered him into his enemy’s 
hands, his hour had struck. Johnny determined to 
square the debt now, once for all, and wipe his own 
mind clean of that poison which corroded it. His 
muscles were strong, his brain clear, he had never felt 
133 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


his strength so irresistible as at this moment, while 
Mort, for all his boasted superiority, was nothing but 
a nerveless thing hanging limp against his breast. 
Providence had arranged it all. The younger man 
was impelled to give raucous voice to his glee, and yet 
— his helpless burden exerted an odd effect upon him. 

He deposited his foe upon the sled and stared at 
the face he had not met for many days. He saw how 
white it was, how wet and cold, how weak and dazed, 
then as he looked he cursed inwardly, for the triumph 
of his moment was spoiled. 

The ax was there, its polished bit showed like a 
piece of ice, its helve protruded handily, but there was 
no need of it now; his fingers were all the weapons 
Johnny needed; they were more than sufficient, in 
fact, for Mort was like a child. 

Cantwell was a strong man, and, although the North 
had coarsened him, yet underneath the surface was a 
chivalrous regard for all things weak, and this the 
trail madness had not affected. He had longed for 
this instant, but now that it had come he felt no enjoy- 
ment, since he could not harm a sick man and waged 
no war on cripples. Perhaps, when Mort had rested, 
they could settle their quarrel; this was as good a 
place as any. The storm hid them, they would leave 
no traces, there could be no interruption. 

But Mort did not rest. He could not walk; move- 
ment brought excruciating pain. 

Finally Cantwell heard himself saying: “ Better 
134 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


wrap up and lie still for a while. I’ll get the dogs 
underway.” His words amazed him dully. They 
were not at all what he had intended to say. 

The injured man demurred, but the other insisted 
gruffly, then brought him his mittens and cap, slapping 
the snow out of them before rousing the team to 
motion. The load was very heavy now, the dogs had 
no footprints to guide them, and it required all of 
Cantwell’s efforts to prevent capsizing. Night ap- 
proached swiftly, the whirling snow particles continued 
to flow past upon the wind, shrouding the earth in an 
impenetrable pall. 

The journey soon became a terrible ordeal, a slow, 
halting progress that led nowhere and was accom- 
plished at the cost of tremendous exertion. Time 
after time Johnny broke trail, then returned and urged 
the huskies forward to the end of his tracks. When 
he lost the path he sought it out, laboriously hoisted 
the sledge back into place, and coaxed his four-footed 
helpers to renewed effort. He was drenched with 
perspiration, his inner garments were steaming, his 
outer ones were frozen into a coat of armor; when he 
paused he chilled rapidly. His vision was untrust- 
worthy, also, and he felt snow blindness coming on. 
Grant begged him more than once to unroll the bedding 
and prepare to sleep out the storm; he even urged 
Johnny to leave him and make a dash for his own 
safety, but at this the younger man cursed and told 
him to hold his tongue. 

135 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Night found the lone driver slipping, plunging, 
lurching ahead of the dogs, or shoving at the handle- 
bars and shouting at the dogs. Finally, during a 
pause for rest he heard a sound which roused him. 
Out of the gloom to the right came the faint complain- 
ing howl of a malemute; it was answered by his own 
dogs, and the next moment they had caught a scent 
which swerved them shoreward and led them scram- 
bling through the drifts. Two hundred yards, and a 
steep bank loomed above, up and over which they 
rushed, with Cantwell yelling encouragement; then a 
light showed, and they were in the lee of a low-roofed 
hut. 

A sick native, huddled over a Yukon stove, made 
them welcome to his mean abode, explaining that his 
wife and son had gone to Unalaklik for supplies. 

Johnny carried his partner to the one unoccupied 
bunk and stripped his clothes from him. With his 
own hands he rubbed the warmth back into Mortimer’s 
limbs, then swiftly prepared hot food, and, holding 
him in the hollow of his aching arm, fed him, a little 
at a time. He was like to drop from exhaustion, but 
he made no complaint. With one folded robe he made 
the hard boards comfortable, then spread the other as 
a covering. For himself he sat beside the fire and 
fought his weariness. When he dozed off and the 
cold awakened him, he renewed the fire; he heated 
beef tea, and, rousing Mort, fed it to him with a tea- 
spoon. All night long, at intervals, he tended the 
136 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


sick man, and Grant’s eyes followed him with an ex- 
pression that brought a fierce pain to Cantwell’s throat. 

“ You’re mighty good — after the rotten way I 
acted,” the former whispered once. 

And Johnny’s big hand trembled so that he spilled 
the broth. 

His voice was low and tender as he inquired, “Are 
you resting easier now ? ” 

The other nodded. 

“Maybe you’re not hurt badly, after — all. God! 

That would be awful ” Cantwell choked, turned 

away, and, raising his arms against the log wall, buried 
his face in them. 

The morning broke clear; Grant was sleeping. As 
Johnny stiffly mounted the creek bank with a bucket 
of water he heard a jingle of sleighbells and saw a 
sled with two white men swing in toward the cabin. 

“ Hello ! ” he called, then heard his own name pro- 
nounced. 

“ Johnny Cantwell, by all that’s holy! ” 

The next moment he was shaking hands vigorously 
with two old friends from Nome. 

“ Martin and me are bound for Saint Mikes,” one of 
them explained. “ Where the deuce did you come 
from, Johnny? ” 

“ The 4 outside.’ Started for Stony River, but — ” 

“Stony River!” The newcomers began to laugh 
loudly and Cantwell joined them. It was the first 
137 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


time he had laughed for weeks. He realized the fact 
with a start, then recollected also his sleeping partner, 
and said: 

“ Sh-h ! Mort’s inside, asleep ! ” 

During the night everything had changed for Johnny 
Cantwell; his mental attitude, his hatred, his whole 
reasonless insanity. Everything was different now, 
even his debt was canceled, the weight of obligation 
was removed, and his diseased fancies were completely 
cured. 

“Yes! Stony River/’ he repeated, grinning 
broadly. “I bit!” 

Martin burst forth, gleefully: “They caught Mac- 
Donald at Holy Cross and ran him out on a limb. 
He’ll never start another stampede. Old man Baker 
gun-branded him.” 

“ What’s the matter with Mort ? ” inquired the 
second traveler. 

“ He’s resting up. Yesterday, during the storm he 
— ” Johnny was upon the point of saying “ played 
out,” but changed it to “ had an accident. We 
thought it was serious, but a few days’ rest’ll bring 
him around all right. He saved me at Katmai, com- 
ing in. I petered out and threw up my tail, but he 
got me through. Come inside and tell him the news.” 

“ Sure thing.” 

“Well, well!” Martin said. “So you and Mort 
are still partners, eh?” 

“ Still partners? ” Johnny took up the pail of water. 

138 


THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION 


" Well, rather ! We’ll always be partners.” His voice 
was young and full and hearty as he continued: 
“ Why, Mort’s the best fellow in the world. I’d lay 
down my life for him.” 



By Jack London 

I DON’T think much of Stephen Mackaye any 
more, though I used to swear by him. I know 
that in those days I loved him more than my 
brother. If ever I meet Stephen Mackaye again, I 
shall not be responsible for my actions. It passes be- 
yond me that a man with whom I shared food and 
blanket, and with whom I mushed over the Chilcoot 
Trail, should turn out the way he did. I always sized 
Steve up as a square man, a kindly comrade, without 
an iota of anything vindictive or malicious in his na- 
ture. I shall never trust my judgment in men again. 
Why, I nursed that man through typhoid fever; we 
starved together on the headwaters of the Stewart; 
and he saved my life on the Little Salmon. And now, 
after the years we were together, all I can say of Steph- 
en Mackaye is that he is the meanest man I ever knew. 
We started for the Klondike in the fall rush of 

1 From Lost Face. Copyright, 1910, by the Macmillan Com- 
pany. Reprinted by special permission of the publisher. 

140 


THAT SPOT 


1897, an d we started too late to get over Chilcoot 
Pass before the freeze-up. We packed our outfit on 
our backs part way over, when the snow began to fly, 
and then we had to buy dogs in order to sled it the 
rest of the way. That was how we came to get 
that Spot. Dogs were high, and we paid one hundred 
and ten dollars for him. He looked worth it. I say 
looked, because he was one of the finest-appearing dogs 
I ever saw. He weighed sixty pounds, and he had all 
the lines of a good sled animal. We never could 
make out his breed. He wasn’t husky, nor Malemute, 
nor Hudson Bay; he looked like all of them and he 
didn’t look like any of them; and on top of it all he 
had some of the white man’s dog in him, for on one 
side, in the thick of the mixed yellow-brown-red-and- 
dirty-white that was his prevailing color, there was a 
spot of coal-black as big as a water bucket. That was 
why we called him Spot. 

He was a good looker all right. When he was in 
condition his muscles stood out in bunches all over 
him. And he was the strongest-looking brute I ever 
saw in Alaska, also the most intelligent-looking. To 
run your eyes over him, you’d think he could outpull 
three dogs of his own weight. Maybe he could, but 
I never saw it. His intelligence didn’t run that way. 
He could steal and forage to perfection; he had an 
instinct that was positively gruesome for divining 
when work was to be done and for making a sneak 
accordingly; and for getting lost and not staying lost 
141 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


he was nothing short of inspired. But when it came 
to work, the way that intelligence dribbled out of him 
and left him a mere clot of wobbling, stupid jelly 
would make your heart bleed. 

There are times when I think it wasn’t stupidity. 
Maybe, like some men I know, he was too wise to 
work. I shouldn’t wonder if he put it all over us with 
that intelligence of his. Maybe he figured it all out 
and decided that a licking now and again and no work 
was a whole lot better than work all the time and no 
licking. He was intelligent enough for such a com- 
putation. I tell you, I’ve sat and looked into that 
dog’s eyes till the shivers ran up and down my spine 
and the marrow crawled like yeast, what of the in- 
telligence I saw shining out. I can’t express myself 
about that intelligence. It is beyond mere words. I 
saw it, that’s all. At times it was like gazing into a 
human soul, to look into his eyes ; and what I saw there 
frightened me and started all sorts of ideas in my own 
mind of reincarnation and all the rest. I tell you I 
sensed something big in that brute’s eyes; there was a 
message there, but I wasn’t big enough myself to catch 
it. Whatever it was (I know I’m making a fool of 
myself) — whatever it was, it baffled me. I can’t 
give an inkling of what I saw in that brute’s eyes ; it 
wasn’t light, it wasn’t color; it was something that 
moved, away back, when the eyes themselves weren’t 
moving. And I guess I didn’t see it move, either; I 
only sensed that it moved. It was an expression, — 
142 


THAT SPOT 


that’s what it was, — and I got an impression of it. 
No; it was different from a mere expression; it was 
more than that. I don’t know what it was, but it gave 
me a feeling of kinship just the same. Oh, no, not 
sentimental kinship. It was, rather, a kinship of 
equality. Those eyes never pleaded like a deer’s eyes. 
They challenged. No, it wasn’t defiance. It was just 
a calm assumption of equality. And I don’t think it 
was deliberate. My belief is that it was unconscious 
on his part. It was there because it was there, and 
it couldn’t help shining out. No, I don’t mean shine. 
It didn’t shine; it moved. I know I’m talking rot, but 
if you’d looked into that animal’s eyes the way I 
have, you’d understand. Steve was affected the same 
way I was. Why, I tried to kill that Spot once — he 
was no good for anything; and I fell down on it. I 
led him out into the brush, and he came along slow 
and unwilling. He knew what was going on. I 
stopped in a likely place, put my foot on the rope, and 
pulled my big Colt’s. And that dog sat down and 
looked at me. I tell you he didn’t plead. He just 
looked. And I saw all kinds of incomprehensible 
things moving, yes, moving, in those eyes of his. I 
didn’t really see them move ; I thought I saw them, for, 
as I said before, I guess I only sensed them. And I 
want to tell you right now that it got beyond me. It 
was like killing a man, a conscious, brave man who 
looked calmly into your gun as much as to say, “ Who’s 
afraid ? ” Then, too, the message seemed so near that, 
143 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


instead of pulling the trigger quick, I stopped to see 
if I could catch the message. There it was, right be- 
fore me, glimmering all around in those eyes of his. 
And then it was too late. I got scared. I was trem- 
bly all over, and my stomach generated a nervous pal- 
pitation that made me seasick. I just sat down and 
looked at that dog, and he looked at me, till I thought I 
was going crazy. Do you want to know what I did? 
I threw down the gun and ran back to camp with the 
fear of God in my heart. Steve laughed at me. But 
I notice that Steve led Spot into the woods, a week 
later, for the same purpose, and that Steve came back 
alone, and a little later Spot drifted back, too. 

At any rate, Spot wouldn’t work. We paid a hun- 
dred and ten dollars for him from the bottom of our 
sack, and he wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t even tighten 
the traces. Steve spoke to him the first time we put 
him in harness, and he sort of shivered, that was all. 
Not an ounce on the traces. He just stood still and 
wobbled, like so much jelly. Steve touched him with 
the whip. He yelped, but not an ounce. Steve 
touched him again, a bit harder, and he howled — the 
regular long wolf howl. Then Steve got mad and 
gave him half a dozen, and I came on the run from the 
tent. 

I told Steve he was brutal with the animal, and we 
had some words — the first we’d ever had. He threw 
the whip down in the snow and walked away mad. I 
picked it up and went to it. That Spot trembled and 
144 


THAT SPOT 


wobbled and cowered before ever I swung the lash, 
and with the first bite of it he howled like a lost soul. 
Next he lay down in the snow. I started the rest of 
the dogs, and they dragged him along, while I threw 
the whip into him. He rolled over on his back and 
bumped along, his four legs waving in the air, himself 
howling as though he was going through a sausage ma- 
chine. Steve came back and laughed at me, and I 
apologized for what I’d said. 

There was no getting any work out of that Spot; 
and to make up for it, he was the biggest pig-glutton 
of a dog I ever saw. On top of that, he was the 
cleverest thief. These was no circumventing him. 
Many a breakfast we went without our bacon because 
Spot had been there first. And it was because of 
him that we nearly starved to death up the Stewart. 
He figured out the way to break into our meat cache, 
and what he didn’t eat, the rest of the team did. 
But he was impartial. He stole from everybody. He 
was a restless dog, always very busy snooping around 
or going somewhere. And there was never a camp 
within five miles that he didn’t raid. The worst of 
it was that they always came back on us to pay his 
board bill, which was just, being the law of the land; 
but it was mighty hard on us, especially that first win- 
ter on the Chilcoot, when we were busted, paying for 
whole hams and sides of bacon that we never ate. He 
could fight, too, that Spot. He could do everything 
but work. He never pulled a pound, but he was the 
145 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


boss of the whole team. The way he made those dogs 
stand around was an education. He bullied them, and 
there was always one or more of them fresh-marked 
with his fangs. But he was more than a bully. He 
wasn’t afraid of anything that walked on four legs; 
and I’ve seen him march, single-handed, into a strange 
team, without any provocation whatever, and put the 
kibosh on the whole outfit. Did I say he could eat? 
I caught him eating the whip once. That’s straight. 
He started in at the lash, and when I caught him he 
was down to the handle, and still going. 

But he was a good looker. At the end of the first 
week we sold him for seventy-five dollars to the 
Mounted Police. They had experienced dog drivers, 
and we knew that by the time he’d covered the six 
hundred miles to Dawson he’d be a good sled dog. I 
say we knew, for we were just getting acquainted with 
that Spot. A little later we were not brash enough to 
know anything where he was concerned. A week 
later we woke up in the morning to the dangedest dog 
fight we’d ever heard. It was that Spot come back 
and knocking the team into shape. We ate a pretty 
depressing breakfast, I can tell you; but cheered up two 
hours afterward when we sold him to an official 
courier, bound in to Dawson with government dis- 
patches. That Spot was only three days in coming 
back, and, as usual, celebrated his arrival with a rough- 
house. 

We spent the winter and spring, after our own out- 
fit was across the pass, freighting other people’s out- 
146 


THAT SPOT 


fits; and we made a fat stake. Also, we made money 
out of Spot. If we sold him once, we sold him twenty 
times. He always came back, and no one asked for 
their money. We didn’t want the money. We’d have 
paid handsomely for any one to take him off our hands 
for keeps. We had to get rid of him, and we couldn’t 
give him away, for that would have been suspicious. 
But he was such a fine looker that we never had any 
difficulty in selling him. “ Unbroke,” we’d say, and 
they’d pay any old price for him. We sold him as low 
as twenty-five dollars, and once we got a hundred and 
fifty for him. That particular party returned him in 
person, refused to take his money back, and the way 
he abused us was something awful. He said it was 
cheap at the price to tell us what he thought of us; 
and we felt he was so justified that we never talked 
back. But to this day I’ve never quite regained all the 
old self-respect that was mine before that man talked 
to me. 

When the ice cleared out of the lakes and river, we 
put our outfit in a Lake Bennet boat and started for 
Dawson. We had a good team of dogs, and of course 
we piled them on top the outfit. That Spot was along 
— there was no losing him ; and a dozen times, the first 
day, he knocked one or another of the dogs overboard 
in the course of fighting with them. It was close 
quarters, and he didn’t like being crowded. 

“ What that dog needs is space,” Steve said the sec- 
ond day. “ Let’s maroon him.” 

147 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


We did, running the boat in at Caribou Crossing for 
him to jump ashore. Two of the other dogs, good 
dogs, followed him; and we lost two whole days try- 
ing to find them. We never saw those two dogs again ; 
but the quietness and relief we enjoyed made us decide, 
like the man who refused his hundred and fifty, that 
it was cheap at the price. For the first time in months 
Steve and I laughed and whistled and sang. We were 
as happy as clams. The dark days were over. The 
nightmare had been lifted. That Spot was gond 
Three weeks later, one morning, Steve and I were 
standing on the river bank at Dawson. A small boat 
was just arriving from Lake Bennett. I saw Steve 
give a start, and heard him say something that was not 
nice and that was not under his breath. Then I 
looked; and there, in the bow of the boat, with ears 
pricked up, sat Spot. Steve and I sneaked immediate- 
ly, like beaten curs, like cowards, like absconders from 
justice. It was this last that the lieutenant of police 
thought when he saw us sneaking. He surmised that 
there were law officers in the boat who were after 
us. He didn’t wait to find out, but kept us in sight, 
and in the M.&.M. saloon got us in a corner. We had 
a merry time explaining, for we refused to go back to 
the boat and meet Spot; and finally he held us under 
guard of another policeman while he went to the boat. 
After we got clear of him, we started for the cabin, 
and when we arrived, there was that Spot sitting on 
the stoop waiting for us. Now how did he know we 
148 


THAT SPOT 


lived there? There were forty thousand people in 
Dawson that summer, and how did he savvy our cabin 
out of all the cabins? How did he know we were in 
Dawson, anyway? I leave it to you. But don’t for- 
get what I have said about his intelligence and that im- 
mortal something I have seen glimmering in his eyes. 

There was no getting rid of him any more. There 
were too many people in Dawson who had bought him 
up on Chilcoot, and the story got around. Half a 
dozen times we put him on board steamboats going 
down the Yukon; but he merely went ashore at the 
first landing and trotted back up the bank. We 
couldn’t sell him, we couldn’t kill him (both Steve and 
I had tried), and nobody else was able to kill him. 
He bore a charmed life. I’ve seen him go down in a 
dog fight on the main street with fifty dogs on top of 
him, and when they were separated, he’d appear on all 
his four legs, unharmed, while two of the dogs that 
had been on top of him would be lying dead. 

I saw him steal a chunk of moose meat from Major 
Dinwiddie’s cache so heavy that he could just keep one 
jump ahead of Mrs. Dinwiddie’s squaw cook, who was 
after him with an ax. As he went up the hill, after 
the squaw gave out, Major Dinwiddie himself came 
out and pumped his Winchester into the landscape. 
He emptied his magazine twice, and never touched that 
Spot. Then a policeman came along and arrested 
him for discharging firearms inside the city limits. 
Major Dinwiddie paid his fine, and Steve and I paid 
149 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


him for the moose meat at the rate of a dollar a pound, 
bones and all. That was what he paid for it. Meat 
was high that year. 

I am only telling what I saw with my own eyes. 
And now I’ll tell you something, also. I saw that 
Spot fall through a water hole. The ice was three 
and a half feet thick, and the current sucked him un- 
der like a straw. Three hundred yards below was the 
big water hole used by the hospital. Spot crawled out 
of the hospital water hole, licked off the water, bit out 
the ice that had formed between his toes, trotted up the 
bank, and whipped a big Newfoundland belonging to 
the Gold Commissioner. 

In the fall of 1898, Steve and I poled up the Yukon 
on the last water, bound for Stewart River. We took 
the dogs along, all except Spot. We figured we’d 
been feeding him long enough. He’d cost us more 
time and trouble and money and grub than we’d got 
by selling him on the Chilcoot — especially grub. So 
Steve and I tied him down in the cabin and pulled 
our freight. We camped that night at the mouth of 
Indian River, and Steve and I were pretty facetious 
over having shaken him. Steve was a funny cuss, and 
I was just sitting up in the blankets and laughing when 
a tornado hit camp. The way that Spot walked into 
those dogs and gave them what-for was hair-raising. 
Now how did he get loose? It’s up to you. I haven’t 
any theory. And how did he get across the Klondike 
River? That’s another facer. And anyway, how did 
150 


THAT SPOT 


he know we had gone up the Yukon? You see, we 
went by water, and he couldn’t smell our tracks. 
Steve and I began to get superstitious about that dog. 
He got on our nerves, too ; and, between you and me, 
we were just a mite afraid of him. 

The freeze-up came on when we were at the mouth 
of Henderson Creek, and we traded him off for two 
sacks of flour to an outfit that was bound up White 
River after copper. Now that whole outfit was lost. 
Never trace nor hide nor hair of men, dogs, sleds, or 
anything was ever found. They dropped clean out of 
sight. It became one of the mysteries of the country. 
Steve and I plugged away up the Stewart, and six 
weeks afterward that Spot crawled into camp. He 
was a perambulating skeleton, and could just drag 
along ; but he got there. And what I want to know is 
who told him we were up the Stewart? We could 
have gone a thousand other places. How did he 
know? You tell me, and I’ll tell you. 

No losing him. At the Mayo he started a row with 
an Indian dog. The buck who owned the dog took a 
swing at Spot with an ax, missed him, and killed his 
own dog. Talk about magic and turning bullets aside 
— I, for one, consider it a blamed sight harder to turn 
an ax aside with a big buck at the other end of it. 
And I saw him do it with my own eyes. That buck 
didn’t want to kill his own dog. You’ve got to show 
me. 

I told you about Spot breaking into our meat cache. 
I5i 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


It was nearly the death of us. There wasn’t any more 
meat to be killed, and meat was all we had to live on. 
The moose had gone back several hundred miles and 
the Indians with them. There we were. Spring was 
on, and we had to wait for the river to break. We 
got pretty thin before we decided to eat the dogs, and 
we decided to eat Spot first. Do you know what that 
dog did? He sneaked. Now how did he know our 
minds were made up to eat him? We sat up nights 
laying for him, but he never came back, and we ate 
the other dogs. We ate the whole team. 

And now for the sequel. You know what it is 
when a big river breaks up and a few billion tons of 
ice go out, jamming and milling and grinding. Just 
in the thick of it, when the Stewart went out, rumbling 
and roaring, we sighted Spot out in the middle. He’d 
got caught as he was trying to cross up above some- 
where. Steve and I yelled and shouted and ran up 
and down the bank, tossing our hats in the air. 
Sometimes we’d stop and hug each other, we were 
that boisterous, for we saw Spot’s finish. He didn’t 
have a chance in a million. He didn’t have any chance 
at all. After the ice-run, we got into a canoe and pad- 
died down to the Yukon, and down the Yukon to Daw- 
son, stopping to feed up for a week at the cabins at 
the mouth of Henderson Creek. And as we came in 
to the bank at Dawson, there sat that Spot, waiting 
for us, his ears pricked up, his tail wagging, his mouth 
smiling, extending a hearty welcome to us. Now how 
152 


THAT SPOT 


did he get out of that ice ? How did he know we were 
coming to Dawson, to the very hour and minute, to be 
out there on the bank waiting for us ? 

The more I think of that Spot, the more I am con- 
vinced that there are things in this world that go be- 
yond science. On no scientific grounds can that Spot 
be explained. It’s psychic phenomena, or mysticism, 
or something of that sort, I guess, with a lot of the- 
osophy thrown in. The Klondike is a good country. 
I might have been there yet, and become a millionaire, 
if it hadn’t been for Spot. He got on my nerves. I 
stood him for two years altogether, and then I guess 
my stamina broke. It was the summer of 1899 when 
I pulled out. I didn’t say anything to Steve. I just 
sneaked. But I fixed it up all right. I wrote Steve 
a note, and enclosed a package of “ rough-on-rats,” 
telling him what to do with it. I was worn down to 
skin and bone by that Spot, and I was that nervous 
that I’d jump and look around when there wasn’t 
anybody within hailing distance. But it was astonish- 
ing the way I recuperated when I got quit of him. I 
got back twenty pounds before I arrived in San Fran- 
cisco, and by the time I’d crossed the ferry to Oakland 
I was my old self again, so that even my wife looked 
in vain for any change in me. 

Steve wrote to me once, and his letter seemed irri- 
tated. He took it kind of hard because I’d left him 
with Spot. Also, he said he’d used the “ rough-on- 
rats,” per directions, and that there was nothing doing. 
153 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


A year went by. I was back in the office and prosper- 
ing in all ways — even getting a bit fat. And then 
Steve arrived. He didn’t look me up. I read his 
name in the steamer list, and wondered why. But I 
didn’t wonder long. I got up one morning and found 
that Spot chained to the gate-post and holding up the 
milkman. Steve went north to Seattle, I learned, that 
very morning. I didn’t put on any more weight. My 
wife made me buy him a collar and tag, and within an 
hour he showed his gratitude by killing her pet Persian 
cat. There is no getting rid of that Spot. He will 
be with me until I die, for he’ll never die. My ap- 
petite is not so good since he arrived, and my wife says 
I am looking peaked. Last night that Spot got into 
Mr. Harvey’s hen house (Harvey is my next door 
neighbor) and killed nineteen of his fancy-bred chick- 
ens. I shall have to pay for them. My neighbors on 
the other side quarreled with my wife and then moved 
out. Spot was the cause of it. And that is why I am 
disappointed in Stephen Mackaye. I had no idea he 
was so mean a man. 



VII. — When Lincoln Licked a Bully 1 


By Irving Bac heller 

In “A Man For the Ages ” Irving Bacheller tells the story 
of Abraham Lincoln’s life and career in the form of a novel. 
He represents that the book is written by the grandson of one 
Samson Traylor, who is presented as a friend of Lincoln’s . 
The story that follows is an abbreviation of the account of 
the journey of Samson Traylor and his wife and two chil- 
dren and their dog, Sambo, in 1831, from Vergennes, Ver- 
mont, to the Illinois country; and the part “ Abe” Lincoln, 
a clerk in Denton Off tit’s store at New Salem, had in building 
a log cabin for them upon their arrival there; and concludes 
by telling how Lincoln licked a bully . — The Editor. 

I N the early summer of 1831 Samson Traylor and 
his wife, Sarah, and two children left their old 
home near the village of Vergennes, Vermont, and 
began their travels toward the setting sun with four 
chairs, a bread board and rolling-pin, a feather bed and 
blankets, a small looking-glass, a skillet, an ax, a pack 

1 From A Man For the Ages. Copyright, 1919, by the Bobbs- 
Merrill Company. Used by special permission of the publishers. 

155 



BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


basket with a pad of sole leather on the same, a water 
pail, a box of dishes, a tub of salt pork, a rifle, a tea- 
pot, a sack of meal, sundry small provisions and a 
violin, in a double wagon drawn by oxen. ... A 
young black shepherd dog with tawny points and the 
name of Sambo followed the wagon or explored the 
fields and woods it passed. 

The boy Josiah — familiarly called Joe — sits be- 
side his mother. He is a slender, sweet-faced boy. 
He is looking up wistfully at his mother. The little 
girl Betsey sits between him and her father. 

That evening they stopped at the house of an old 
friend some miles up the dusty road to the north. 

“ Here we are — goin’ west,” Samson shouted to 
the man at the doorstep. 

He alighted and helped his family out of the wagon. 

“ You go right in— - I’ll take care o’ the oxen,” said 
the man. 

Samson started for the house with the girl under 
one arm and the boy under the other. A pleasant- 
faced woman greeted them with a hearty welcome at 
the door. 

“ You poor man ! Come right in,” she said. 

“ Poor! I’m the richest man in the world,” said he. 
“ Look at the gold on that girl’s head — curly, fine 
gold, too — the best there is. She’s Betsey — my lit- 
tle toy woman — half past seven years old — blue eyes 
— helps her mother get tired every day. Here’s my 
toy •man Josiah — yes, brown hair and brown eyes 

156 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


like Sarah — heart o’ gold — helps his mother, too — 
six times one year old.” 

“ What pretty faces ! ” said the woman as she 
stooped and kissed them. 

“ Yes, ma’am. Got ’em from the fairies,” Samson 
went on. “ They have all kinds o’ heads for little 
folks, an’ I guess they color ’em up with the blood o’ 
roses an’ the gold o’ buttercups an’ the blue o’ violets. 
Here’s this wife o’ mine. She’s richer’n I am. She 
owns all of us. We’re her slaves.” 

“ Looks as young as she did the day she was mar- 
ried — nine years ago,” said the woman. 

“ Exactly ! ” Samson exclaimed. “ Straight as an 
arrow and proud! I don’t blame her. She’s got 
enough to make her proud I say. I fall in love again 
every time I look into her big brown eyes.” 

The talk and laughter brought the dog into the 
house. 

“ There’s Sambo, our camp follower,” said Sam- 
son. “ He likes us, one and all, but he often feels 
sorry for us because we cannot feel the joy that lies 
in buried bones and the smell of a liberty pole or a 
gate post.” 

They had a joyous evening and a restful night with 
these old friends and resumed their journey soon after 
daylight. They ferried across the lake at Burlington 
and fared away over the mountains and through the 
deep forest on the Chateaugay trail. . . . 

They had read a little book called The Country of the 

15 7 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Sangamon. The latter was a word of the Pottawa- 
tomies meaning “ land of plenty.” It was the name 
of a river in Illinois draining “ boundless, flowery 
meadows of unexampled beauty and fertility, belted 
with timber, blessed with shady groves, covered with 
game and mostly level, without a stick or a stone to 
vex the plowman.” Thither they were bound to take 
up a section of government land. 

They stopped for a visit with Elisha Howard and 
his wife, old friends of theirs, who lived in the village 
of Malone, which was in Franklin County, New York. 
There they traded their oxen for a team of horses. 
They were large gray horses named Pete and Colonel. 
The latter was fat and good-natured. His chief inter- 
est in life was food. Pete was always looking for 
food and perils. Colonel was the near horse. Now 
and then Samson threw a sheepskin over his back and 
put the boy on it and tramped along within arm’s reach 
of Joe’s left leg. This was a great delight to the little 
lad. 

They proceeded at a better pace to the Black River 
country, toward which, in the village of Canton, they 
tarried again for a visit with Captain Moody and Silas 
Wright, both of whom had taught school in the town 
of Vergennes. 

They proceeded through DeKalb, Richville and 
Gouverneur and Antwerp and on to the Sand Plains. 
They had gone far out of their way for a look at 
these old friends of theirs. 

158 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


Every day the children would ask many questions, 
as they rode along, mainly about the beasts and birds 
in the dark shadows of the forest through which they 
passed. These were answered patiently by their fa- 
ther and mother and every answer led to other queries. 

“ You’re a funny pair,” said their father one day. 
“You have to turn over every word we say to see 
what’s under it. I used to be just like ye, used to go 
out in the lot and tip over every stick and stone I could 
lift to see the bugs and crickets run. You’re always 
hopin’ to see a bear or a panther or a fairy run out 
from under my remarks.” 

“ Wonder why we don’t see no bears? ” Joe asked. 

“ ’ Cause they always see us first or hear us cornin’,” 
said his father. “If you’re goin’ to see oY Uncle Bear 
ye got to pay the price of admission.” 

“ What’s that? ” Joe asked. 

“ Got to go still and careful so you’ll see him first. 
If this old wagon didn’t talk so loud and would kind 
o’ go on its tiptoes maybe we’d see him. He don’t 
like to be seen. Seems so he was kind o’ shamed of 
himself, an’ I wouldn’t wonder if he was. He’s done 
a lot o’ things to be ’shamed of.” 

“ What’s he done? ” Joe asked. 

“ Ketched sheep and pigs and fawns and run off 
with ’em.” 

“ What does he do with ’em ? ” 

“ Eats ’em up. Now you quit. Here’s a lot o’ 
rocks and mud and I got to tend to business. You 
159 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


tackle yer mother and chase her up and down the hills 
a while and let me get my breath.’ , 

On the twenty-ninth day after their journey began 
they came in sight of the beautiful green valley of the 
Mohawk. As they looked from the hills they saw the 
roof of the forest dipping down to the river shores 
and stretching far to the east and west and broken, 
here and there, by small clearings. Soon they could 
see the smoke and spires of the thriving village of 
Utica. 

Here they bought provisions and a tin trumpet for 
Joe, and a doll with a real porcelain face for Betsey, 
and turned into the great main thoroughfare of the 
north leading eastward to Boston and westward to a 
shore of the midland seas. This road was once the 
great trail of the Iroquois, by them called the Long 
House, because it had reached from the Hudson to 
Lake Erie, and in their day had been well roofed with 
foliage. Here the travelers got their first view of a 
steam engine. The latter stood puffing and smoking 
near the village of Utica, to the horror and amaze- 
ment of the team and the great excitement of those 
in the wagon. The boy clung to his father for fear of 
it. 

Samson longed to get out of the wagon and take a 
close look at the noisy monster, but his horses were 
rearing in their haste to get away, and even a short 
stop was impossible. Sambo, with his tail between his 
160 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


legs, ran ahead, in a panic, and took refuge in some 
bushes by the roadside. 

“ What was that, father?” the boy asked when the 
horses had ceased to worry over this new peril. 

“ A steam engyne,” he answered. “ Sarah, did ye 
get a good look at it? ” 

“ Yes; if that don’t beat all the newfangled notions 
I ever heard of,” she exclaimed. 

“ It’s just begun doin’ business,” said Samson. 

“ What does it do?” Joe asked. 

“ On a railroad track it can grab hold of a house 
full o’ folks and run off with it. Goes like the wind, 
too.” 

“ Does it eat ’em up? ” Joe asked. 

“ No. It eats wood and oil and keeps yellin’ for 
more. I guess it could eat a cord o’ wood and wash 
it down with half a bucket o’ castor oil in about five 
minutes. It snatches folks away to some place and 
drops ’em. I guess it must make their hair stand up 
and their teeth chatter.” 

“ Does it hurt anybody ? ” Joe asked hopefully. 

“ Well, sir, if anybody wanted to be hurt and got in 
its way, I rather guess he’d succeed purty well. It’s 
powerful. Why, if a man was to ketch hold of the 
tail of a locomotive, and hang on, it would jerk the 
toe nails right off him.” 

Joe began to have great respect for locomo- 
tives. 

Soon they came in view of the famous Erie Canal, 
161 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


hard by the road. Through it the grain of the far 
West had just begun moving eastward in a tide that 
was flowing from April to December. Big barges, 
drawn by mules and horses on its shore, were cutting 
the still waters of the canal. They stopped and looked 
at the barges and the long tow ropes and the tugging 
animals. 

“ There is a real artificial river, hundreds o’ miles 
long, handmade of the best material, water tight, no 
snags or rocks or other imperfections, durability guar- 
anteed, ’’ said Samson. “ It has made the name of 
DeWitt Clinton known everywhere.” 

“ I wonder what next ! ” Sarah exclaimed. 

They met many teams and passed other movers 
going west, and some prosperous farms on a road 
wider and smoother than any they had traveled. They 
camped that night, close by the river, with a Connec- 
ticut family on its way to Ohio with a great load of 
household furniture on one wagon and seven children 
in another. There were merry hours for the young, 
and pleasant visiting between the older folk that eve- 
ning at the fireside. There was much talk among the 
latter about the great Erie Canal. 

So they fared along through Canandaigua and 
across the Genesee to the village of Rochester and on 
through Lewiston and up the Niagara River to the 
Falls, and camped where they could see the great water 
flood and hear its muffled thunder. . . . 

“ Children,” said Samson, “ I want you to take a 
162 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


good look at that. It’s the most wonderful thing in 
the world and maybe you’ll never see it again.” 

“ The Indians used to think that the Great Spirit was 
in this river,” said Sarah. 

“ Kind o’ seems to me they were right,” Samson re- 
marked thoughtfully. “ Kind o’ seems as if the great 
spirit of America was in that water. It moves on in 
the way it wills and nothing can stop it. Everything 
in its current goes along with it. ...” 

They had the lake view and its cool breeze on their 
way to Silver Creek, Dunkirk and Erie, and a rough 
way it was in those days. 

They fared along through Indiana and over the 
wide savannas of Illinois, and on the ninety-seventh 
day of their journey they drove through rolling, 
grassy, flowering prairies and up a long, hard hill to the 
small log cabin settlement of New Salem, Illinois, on 
the shore of the Sangamon. They halted about noon 
in the middle of this little prairie village, opposite a 
small clapboarded house. A sign hung over its door 
which bore the rudely lettered words : “ Rutledge’s 
Tavern.” 

A long, slim, stoop-shouldered young man sat in the 
shade of an oak tree that stood near a corner of the 
tavern, with a number of children playing around him. 
He had sat leaning against the tree trunk reading a 
book. He had risen as they came near and stood 
looking at them, with the book under his arm. . . . 
163 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


He wore a hickory shirt without a collar or coat or 
jacket. One suspender held up his coarse, linsey 
trousers, the legs of which fitted closely and came only 
to a blue yarn zone above his heavy cowhide shoes. 
Samson writes that he “ fetched a sneeze and wiped 
his big nose with a red handkerchief ” as he stood 
surveying them in silence, while Dr. John Allen, who 
had sat on the doorstep reading a paper — a kindly- 
faced man of middle age with a short white beard 
under his chin — greeted them cheerfully. 

The withering sunlight of a day late in August fell 
upon the dusty street, now almost deserted. Faces at 
the doors and windows of the little houses were look- 
ing out at them. Two ragged boys and a ginger- 
colored dog came running toward the wagon. The 
latter and Sambo surveyed each other with raised hair 
and began scratching the earth, straight-legged, whin- 
ing meanwhile, and in a moment began to play to- 
gether. A man in blue jeans who sat on the veranda 
of a store opposite, leaning against its wall, stopped 
whittling and shut his jacknife. 

“ Where do ye hail from? ” the Doctor asked. 

“ Vermont,” said Samson. 

“ All the way in that wagon ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“I guess you're made o' the right stuff,” said the 
Doctor. “ Where ye bound ? ” 

“ Don't know exactly. Going to take up a claim 
somewhere.” 


164 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


“ There’s no better country than right here. This 
is the Canaan of America. We need people like you. 
Unhitch your team and have some dinner and we’ll 
talk things over after you’re rested. I’m the doctor 
here and I ride all over this part o’ the country. I 
reckon I know it pretty well.” 

A woman in a neat calico dress came out of the 
door — a strong built and rather well favored woman 
with blond hair and dark eyes. 

“ Mrs. Rutledge, these are travelers from the East,” 
said the Doctor. “ Give ’em some dinner, and if they 
can’t pay for it, I can. They’ve come all the way from 
Vermont.” 

“ Good land ! Come right in an’ rest yerselves. 
Abe, you show the gentleman where to put his horses 
an’ lend him a hand.” 

Abe extended his long arm toward Samson and said 
“ Howdy ” as they shook hands. 

“ When his big hand got hold of mine, I kind of felt 
his timber,” Samson writes. “ I says to myself, 
‘ There’s a man it would be hard to tip over in a 
rassle.’ ” 

“What’s yer name? How long ye been travelin’? 
My conscience ! Ain’t ye wore out ? ” the hospitable 
Mrs. Rutledge was asking as she went into the house 
with Sarah and the children. “You go and mix up 
with the little ones and let yer mother rest while I git 
dinner,” she said to Joe and Betsey, and added as she 
took Sarah’s shawl and bonnet: “You lop down 

165 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


an’ rest yerself while I’m flyin’ around the fire.” 

" Come all the way from Vermont? ” Abe asked as 
he and Samson were unhitching. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ By jing!” the slim giant exclaimed. “I reckon 
you feel like throwin’ off yer harness an’ takin ’ a roll 
in the grass.” 

The tavern was the only house in New Salem with 
stairs in it. Stairs so steep, as Samson writes, that 
“ they were first cousins to the ladder.” There were 
four small rooms above them. Two of these were 
parted by a partition of cloth hanging from the rafters. 
In each was a bed and bedstead and smaller beds on the 
floor. In case there were a number of adult guests 
the bedstead was screened with sheets hung upon 
strings. 

In one of these rooms the travelers had a night of 
refreshing sleep. 

After riding two days with the Doctor, Samson 
bought the claim of one Isaac Gollaher to a half section 
of land a little more than a mile from the western end 
of the village. He chose a site for his house on the 
edge of an open prairie. 

“ Now we’ll go over and see Abe,” said Dr. Allen, 
after the deal was made. “ He’s the best man with an 
ax and a saw in this part of the country. He clerks 
for Mr. Offut. Abe Lincoln is one of the best fellows 
that ever lived — a rough diamond just out of the great 
1 66 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


mine of the West, that only needs to be cut and pol- 
ished.” 

Denton Offut’s store was a small log structure about 
twenty by twenty which stood near the brow of the 
hill east of Rutledge’s Tavern. When they entered it 
Abe lay at full length on the counter, his head resting 
on a bolt of blue denim as he studied a book in his 
hand. He wore the same shirt and one suspender and 
linsey trousers which he had worn in the dooryard of 
the tavern, but his feet were covered only by his blue 
yarn socks. 

Abe laid aside his book and rose to a sitting 
posture. 

“Mr. Traylor,” said Doctor Allen, “has just ac- 
quired an interest in all our institutions. He has 
bought the Golla'her tract and is going to build a house 
and some fences. Abe, couldn’t you help get the tim- 
ber out in a hurry so we can have a raising within a 
week? You know the art of the ax better than any 
of us.” 

Abe looked at Samson. 

“ I reckon he and I would make a good team with 
the ax,” he said. “ He looks as if he could push a 
house down with one hand and build it up with the 
other. You can bet Til be glad to help in any way I 
can.” 

Next morning at daylight two parties went out in 
the woods to cut timber for the home of the newcom- 
ers. In one party were Harry Needles carrying two 
167 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


axes and a well-filled luncheon pail ; Samson with a saw 
in his hand and the boy Joe on his back; Abe with saw 
and ax and a small jug of root beer and a book tied in 
a big red handkerchief and slung around his neck. 
When they reached the woods Abe cut a pole for the 
small boy and carried him on his shoulder to the creek 
and said : 

“ Now you sit down here and keep order in this lit- 
tle frog city. If you hear a frog say anything im- 
proper you fetch him a whack. Don’t allow any non- 
sense. We’ll make you Mayor of Frog City.” 

The men fell to with axes and saws while Harry 
limbed the logs and looked after the Mayor. Their 
huge muscles flung the sharp axes into the timber and 
gnawed through it with a saw. Many big trees fell be- 
fore noontime when they stopped for luncheon. While 
they were eating Abe said : 

“ I reckon we better saw out a few boards this after- 
noon. Need ’em for the doors. We’ll tote a couple of 
logs up on the side o’ that knoll, put ’em on skids an’ 
whip ’em up into boards with the saw.” 

Samson took hold of the middle of one of the logs 
and raised it from the ground. 

“ I guess we can carry ’em,” he said. 

" Can ye shoulder it ? ” Abe asked. 

“ Easy,” said Samson as he raised an end of the log, 
stepped beneath it and, resting its weight on his back, 
soon got his shoulder near its center and swung it clear 
of the ground and walked with it to the knollside where 
1 68 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


he let it fall with .a resounding thump that shook the 
ground. Abe stopped eating and watched every move 
in this remarkable performance. The ease with which 
the big Vermonter had so defied the law of gravitation 
with that unwieldly stick amazed him. 

“ That thing’ll weigh from seven to eight hundred 
pounds/’ said he. “ I reckon you’re the stoutest man 
in this part o’ the state an’ I’m quite a man myself. 
I’ve lifted a barrel o’ whisky and put my mouth to the 
bung hole. I never drink it.” 

“ Say,” he added as he sat down and began eating 
a doughnut. “If you ever hit anybody take a sledge 
hammer or a crowbar. It wouldn’t be decent to use 
your fist.” 

“ Don’t talk when you’ve got food in your mouth,” 
said Joe who seemed to have acquired a sense of re- 
sponsibility for the manners of Abe. 

“ I reckon you’re right,” Abe laughed. “ A man’s 
ideas ought not to be mingled with cheese and dough- 
nuts.” 

“ Once in a while I like to try myself in a lift,” said 
Samson. “ It feels good. I don’t do it to show off. 
I know there’s a good many men stouter than I be. I 
guess you’re one of ’em.” 

“ No, I’m too stretched out — my neck is too far 
from the ground,” Abe answered. “ I’m like a crow- 
bar. If I can get my big toe or my fingers under any- 
thing I can pry some.” 

After luncheon he took off his shoes and socks. 

169 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ When I’m working hard I always -try to give my 
feet a rest and my brain a little work at noontime,” he 
remarked. “ My brain is so far behind the procession 
I have to keep putting the gad on it. Give me twenty 
minutes of Kirkham and I’ll be with you again.” 

He lay down on his back under a tree with his book 
in hand and his feet resting on the tree trunk well above 
him. Soon he was up and at work again. 

When they were getting ready to go home that after- 
noon Joe got into a great hurry to see his mother. It 
seemed to him that ages had elapsed since he had seen 
her — a conviction which led to noisy tears. 

Abe knelt before him and comforted the boy. Then 
he wrapped him in his jacket and swung him in the air 
and started for home with Joe astride his neck. 

Samson says in his diary : “ His tender play with 

the little lad gave me another look at the man Lincoln.” 

“ Some one proposed once that we should call that 
stream the Minnehaha,” said Abe as he walked along. 
“ After this Joe and I are going to call it the Minne- 
boohoo.” 

The women of the little village had met at a quilting 
party at ten o’clock with Mrs. Martin Waddell. There 
Sarah had had a seat at the frame and heard all the 
gossip of the countryside. . . . 

So the day passed with them and was interrupted by 
the noisy entrance of Joe, soon after candlelight, who 
climbed on the back of his mother’s chair and kissed 
170 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


her and in breathless eagerness began to relate the his- 
tory of his own day. 

That ended the quilting party and Sarah and Mrs. 
Rutledge and her daughter Ann joined Samson and 
Abe and Harry Needles who were waiting outside and 
walked to the tavern with them. 

John McNeil, whom the Traylors had met on the 
road near .Niagara Falls and who had shared their 
camp with them, arrived on the stage that evening. . . . 
Abe came in, soon after eight o’clock, and was intro- 
duced to the stranger. All noted the contrast between 
the two young men as they greeted each other. Abe 
sat down for a few minutes and looked sadly into the 
fire but said nothing. He rose presently, excused him- 
self and went away. 

Soon Samson followed him. Over at Offut’s store 
he did not find Abe, but Bill Berry was drawing liquor 
from the spigot of a barrel set on blocks in a shed con- 
nected with the rear end of the store and serving it to 
a number of hilarious young Irishmen. The young 
men asked Samson to join them. 

“ No, thank you. I never touch it,” he said. 

“ We’ll come over here an’ learn ye how to enjoy 
yerself some day,” one of them said. 

“ I’m pretty well posted on that subject now,” Sam- 
son answered. 

It is likely that they would have begun his schooling 
at once but when they came out into the store and saw 
the big Vermonter standing in the candlelight their 
171 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


laughter ceased for a moment. Bill was among them 
with a well-filled bottle in his hand. 

He and the others got into a wagon which had been 
waiting at the door and drove away with a wild Indian 
whoop from the lips of one of the young men. 

Samson sat down in the candlelight and Abe in a 
moment arrived. 

“ I’m getting awful sick o’ this business/’ said Abe. 

“ I kind o’ guess you don’t like the whisky part of 
it,” Samson remarked, as he felt a piece of cloth. 

“ I hate it,” Abe went on. “ It don’t seem respect- 
able any longer.” 

“ Back in Vermont we don’t like the whisky busi- 
ness.” 

“ You’re right, it breeds deviltry and disorder. In 
my youth I was surrounded by whisky. Everybody 
drank it. A bottle or a jug of liquor was thought to 
be as legitimate a piece of merchandise as a pound 
of tea or a yard of calico. That’s the way I’ve always 
thought of it. But lately I’ve begun to get the Yankee 
notion about whisky. When it gets into bad company 
it can raise the devil.” 

Soon after nine o’clock Abe drew a mattress filled 
with corn husks from under the counter, cleared away 
the bolts of cloth and laid it where they had been and 
covered it with a blanket. 

“ This is my bed,” said he. “ I’ll be up at five in 
the morning. Then I’ll be making tea here by the fire- 
place to wash down some jerked meat and a hunk o’ 
172 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


bread. At six or a little after I’ll be ready to go with 
you again. Jack Kelso is going to look after the store 
to-morrow.” 

He began to laugh. 

“Ye know when I went out of the tavern that little 
vixen stood peekin’ into the window — Bim, Jack’s 
girl,” said Abe. 44 I asked her why she didn’t go in 
and she said she was scared. 4 Who you ’fraid of ? ’ I 
asked. 4 Oh, I reckon that boy,’ says she. And hon- 
estly her hand trembled when she took hold of my arm 
and walked to her father’s house with me.” 

Abe snickered as he spread another blanket. 44 What 
a cut-up she is! Say, we’ll have some fun watching 
them two I reckon,” he said. 

The logs were ready two days after the cutting be- 
gan. Martin Waddell and Samuel Hill sent teams to 
haul them. John Cameron and Peter Lukins had 
brought the window sash and some clapboards from 
Beardstown in a small flat boat. Then came the day 
of the raising — a clear, warm day early in Septem- 
ber. All the men from the village and the near farms 
gathered to help make a home for the newcomers. 
Samson and Jack Kelso went out for a hunt after the 
cutting and brought in a fat buck and many grouse for 
the bee dinner, to which every woman of the neighbor- 
hood made a contribution of cake or pie or cookies or 
doughnuts. 

44 What will be my part?” Samson had inquired of 
Kelso. 


173 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ Nothing but a jug of whisky and a kind word and 
a house warming,” Kelso had answered. 

They notched and bored the logs and made pins to 
bind them and cut those that were to go around the 
fireplace and window spaces. Strong, willing and well- 
trained hands hewed and fitted the logs together. 
Alexander Ferguson lined the fireplace with a curious 
mortar made of clay in which he mixed grass for a 
binder. This mortar he rolled into layers called 
“ cats,” each eight inches long and three inches thick. 
Then he laid them against the logs and held them in 
place with a woven network of sticks. The first fire 
— a slow one — baked the clay into a rigid stonelike 
sheath inside the logs and presently the sticks were 
burned away. The women had cooked the meats by 
an open fire and spread the dinner on a table of rough 
boards resting on poles set in crotches. At noon one 
of them sounded a conch shell. Then with shouts of 
joy the men hurried to the fireside and for a moment 
there was a great spluttering over the wash basins. 
Before they ate every man except Abe and Samson 
“took a pull at the jug — long or short” — to quote 
a phrase of the time. 

It was a cheerful company that sat down upon the 
grass around the table with loaded plates. Their food 
had its extra seasoning of merry jests and loud laugh- 
ter. Sarah was a little shocked at the forthright direct- 
ness of their eating, no knives or forks or napkins 
being needed in that process. Having eaten, washed 
and packed away their dishes the women went home 
174 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


at two. Before they had gone Samson's ears caught a 
thunder of horses' feet in the distance. Looking in its 
direction he saw a cloud of dust in the road and a band 
of horsemen riding toward them at full speed. Abe 
came to him and said : 

“ I see the boys from Clary’s Grove are coming. If 
they get mean let me deal with 'em. It's my responsi- 
bility. I wouldn’t wonder if they had some of Offut's 
whisky with them." 

The boys arrived in a cloud of dust and a chorus of 
Indian whoops and dismounted and hobbled their 
horses. They came toward the workers, led by burly 
Jack Armstrong, a stalwart, hard-faced blacksmith of 
about twenty-two with broad, heavy shoulders, whose 
name has gone into history. They had been drinking 
some but no one of them was in the least degree off 
his balance. They scuffled around the jug for a mo- 
ment in perfect good nature and then Abe and Mrs. 
Waddell provided them with the best remnants of the 
dinner. They were rather noisy. Soon they went up 
on the roof to help with the rafters and the clapboard- 
ing. They worked well a few minutes and suddenly 
they came scrambling down for another pull at the jug. 
They were out for a spree and Abe knew it and knew 
further that they had reached the limit of discretion. 

“ Boys, there are ladies here and we've got to be 
careful," he said. “ Did I ever tell you what Uncle 
Jerry Holman said of his bull calf? He said the calf 
was such a suckcess that he didn't leave any milk for 

175 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


the family and that while the calf was growin’ fat the 
children was growin’ poor. In my opinion you’re 
about fat enough for the present. Let’s stick to the 
job till four o’clock. Then we’ll knock off for re- 
freshments.” 

The young revelers gathered in a group and began 
to whisper together. Samson writes that it became 
evident then they were going to make trouble and says : 

“ We had left the children at Rutledge’s in the care 
of Ann. I went to Sarah and told her she had better 
go on and see if they were all right. 

“ ‘ Don’t you get in any fight,’ she said, which 
shows that the women knew what was in the air. 

“ Sarah led the way and the others followed her.” 

Those big, brawny fellows from the grove when 
they got merry were looking always for a chance to 
get mad at some man and turn him into a plaything. 
A victim had been a necessary part of their sprees. 
Many a poor fellow had been fastened in a barrel 
and rolled down hill or nearly drowned in a ducking 
for their amusement. A chance had come to get mad 
and they were going to make the most of it. They 
began to growl with resentment. Some were wigging 
their leader Jack Armstrong to fight Abe. One of 
them ran to his horse and brought a bottle from his 
saddlebag. It began passing from mouth to mouth. 
Jack Armstrong* got the bottle before it was half 
emptied, drained it and flung it high in the air. An- 
other called him a hog and grappled him around the 
176 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


waist and there was a desperate struggle which ended 
quickly. Armstrong got a hold on the neck of his as- 
sailant and choked him until he let go. This was not 
enough for the sturdy bully of Clary’s Grove. He 
seized his follower and flung him so roughly on the 
ground that the latter lay for a moment stunned. 
Armstrong had got his blood warm and was now ready 
for action. With a wild whoop he threw off his coat, 
unbuttoned his right shirtsleeve and rolled it to the 
shoulder and declared in a loud voice, as he swung his 
arm in the air, that he could “ out jump, out'hop, out- 
run, throw down, drag out an’ lick any man in New 
Salem.” 

In a letter to his father Samson writes : 

“ Abe was working at my elbow. I saw him drop 
his hammer and get up and make for the ladder. I 
knew something was going to happen and I followed 
him. In a minute every one was off the roof and out 
of the building. I guess they knew what was coming. 
The big lad stood there swinging his arm and yelling 
like an Injun. It was a big arm and muscled and 
corded up some but I guess if I’d shoved the calico off 
mine and held it up he’d a pulled down his sleeve. I 
suppose the feller’s arm had a kind of a mule’s kick in 
it, but, good gracious! If he’d a seen as many arms 
as you an’ I have that have growed up on a hickory 
helve he’d a known that his was nothing to brag of. 
I didn’t know just how good a man Abe was and I 
was kind o’ scairt for a minute. I never found it so 
hard work to do nothin’ as I did then. Honest my 
177 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


hands kind o’ ached. I wanted to go an’ cuff that 
feller’s ears an’ grab hold o’ him an’ toss him over the 
ridge pole. Abe went right up to him an’ said: 

“ ‘ Jack, you ain’t half so bad or half so cordy as 
ye think ye are. You say you can throw down any 
man here. I reckon I’ll have to show ye that you’re 
mistaken. I’ll rassle with ye. We’re friends an’ we 
won’t talk about lickin’ each other. Le’s have a 
friendly rassle.’ 

“ In a second the two men were locked together. 
Armstrong had lunged at Abe with a yell. There was 
no friendship in the way he took hold. He was going 
to do all the damage he could in any way he could. 
He tried to butt with his head and ram his knee into 
Abe’s stomach as soon as they came together. Half- 
drunk Jack is a man who would bite your ear off. 
It was no rassle ; it was a fight. Abe moved like light- 
ning. He acted awful limber an’ well-greased. In 
a second he had got hold of the feller’s neck with his 
big right hand and hooked his left into the cloth on 
his hip. In that way he held him off and shook him 
as you’ve seen our dog shake a woodchuck. Abe’s 
blood was hot. If the whole crowd had piled on him 
I guess he would have come out all right, for when 
he’s roused there’s something in Abe more than bones 
and muscles. I suppose it’s what I feel when he 
speaks a piece. It’s a kind of lightning. I guess it’s 
what our minister used to call the power of the spirit. 
Abe said to me afterwards that he felt as if he was 
fighting for the peace and honor of New Salem. 

“ A friend of the bully jumped in and tried to trip 
i 7 8 


WHEN LINCOLN LICKED A BULLY 


Abe. Harry Needles stood beside me. Before I 
could move he dashed forward and hit that feller in 
the middle of his forehead and knodked him flat. 
Harry had hit Bap McNoll the cock fighter. I got up 
next to the kettle then and took the scum off it. 
Fetched one of them devils a slap with the side of my 
hand that took the skin off his face and rolled him over 
and over. When I looked again Armstrong was go- 
ing limp. His mouth was open and his tongue out. 
With one hand fastened to his right leg and the other 
on the nape of his neck Abe lifted him at arm’s length 
and gave him a toss in the air. Armstrong fell about 
ten feet from where Abe stood and lay there for a 
minute. The %ht was all out of him and he was 
kind of dazed and sick. Abe stood up like a giant 
and his face looked awful solemn. 

“ ‘ Boys, if there’s any more o’ you that want trou- 
ble you can have some off the same piece,’ he said. 

“ They hung their heads and not one of them made 
a move or said a word. Abe went to Armstrong and 
helped him up. 

“ ‘ Jack, I’m sorry that I had to hurt you,’ he said. 

‘ You get on to your horse and go home.’ 

“ * Abe, you’re a better man than me,’ said the bully, 
as he offered his hand to Abe. ‘ I’ll do anything you 
say.’ ” 

So the Clary’s Grove gang was conquered. They 
were to make more trouble but not again were they 
to imperil the foundations of law and order in the lit- 
tle community of New Salem. 

179 



VIII.— The End of the Trail 1 

By Clarence E. Mulford 

Buck Peters , foreman of Bar-20 Ranch had many cow- 
boys; Pete Wilson , Red Connors, Billy Williams, Johnny 
Nelson, and a goodly number more, but chief among them 
was Hopalong Cassidy. Many interesting stories are told 
about him in “Bar-20 Days” but none of his thrilling ex- 
periences ever ended as did the one recited in this most 
unusual story, “The End of the Trail .” — The Editor. 

W HEN one finds on his ranch the carcasses of 
two cows on the same day, and both are 
skinned, there can be only one conclusion. 
The killing and skinning of two cows out of herds that 
are numbered by thousands need not, in themselves, 
bring lines of worry to any foreman’s brow ; but there 
is the sting of being cheated, the possibility of the 
losses going higher unless a sharp lesson be given upon 
the folly of fooling with a very keen and active buzz- 
saw, — and it was the determination of the outfit of 

iFrom Bar-20 Days. Copyright, 1911, by A. C. McClurg and 
Company. Reprinted by special permission of author and 
publisher. 

l80 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


the Bar-20 to teach that lesson, and as quickly as cir- 
cumstances would permit. 

It was common knowledge that there was a more 
or less organized band of shiftless malcontents making 
its headquarters in and near Perry’s Bend, some dis- 
tance up the river, and the deduction in this case was 
easy. The Bar-20 cared very little about what went 
on at Perry’s Bend — that was a matter which con- 
cerned only the ranches near that town — so long as 
no vexatious happenings sifted too far south. But 
they had so sifted, and Perry’s Bend, or rather the 
undesirable class hanging out there, was due to receive 
a shock before long. 

About a week after the finding of the first skinned 
cows, Pete Wilson tornadoed up to the bunk house 
with a perforated arm. Pete was on foot, having lost 
his horse at the first exchange of shots, which accounts 
for the expression describing his arrival. Pete hated 
to walk, he hated still more to get shot, and most of all 
he hated to have to admit that his rifle-shooting was 
so far below par. He had seen the thief at work and, 
too eager to work up close to the cattle skinner before 
announcing his displeasure, had missed the first shot. 
When he dragged himself out from under his deceased 
horse the scenery was undisturbed save for a small 
cloud of dust hovering over a distant rise to the north 
of him. After delivering a short and bitter monologue 
he struck out for the ranch and arrived in a very hot 
and wrathful condition. It was contagious, that con- 
18* 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


dition, and before long the entire outfit was in the 
saddle and pounding north, Pete overjoyed because his 
wound was so slight as not to bar him from the chase. 
The shock was on the way, and as events proved, was 
to be one long to linger in the minds of the inhabitants 
of Perry’s Bend and the surrounding range. 

The patrons of the Oasis liked their tobacco strong. 
The pungent smoke drifted in sluggish clouds along 
the low, black ceiling, following its upward slant 
toward the east wall and away from the high bar at 
the other end. This bar, rough and strong, ran from 
the north wall to within a scant two feet of the south 
wall, the opening bridged by a hinged board which 
served as an extension to the counter. Behind the 
bar was a rear door, low and double, the upper part 
barred securely — the lower part was used most. In 
front of and near the bar was a large round table, at 
which four men played cards silently, while two 
smaller tables were located along the north wall. Be- 
sides dilapidated chairs there were half a dozen low 
wooden boxes partly filled with sand, and attention was 
directed to the existence and purpose of these by a 
roughly lettered sign on the wall, reading : “ Gents will 
look for a box first,” which the “ gents ” sometimes 
did. The majority of the “ gents ” preferred to aim 
at various knotholes in the floor and bet on the result, 
chancing the outpouring of the proprietor’s wrath if 
they missed. 


182 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


On the wall behind the bar was a smaller and neater 
request : “ Leave your guns with the bartender. — Ed- 
wards.” This, although a month old, still called forth 
caustic and profane remarks from the regular fre- 
quenters of the saloon, for hitherto restraint in the 
matter of carrying weapons had been unknown. They 
forthwith evaded the order in a manner consistent 
with their characteristics — by carrying smaller guns 
where they could not be seen. The majority had sim- 
ply sawed off a generous part of the long barrels of 
their Colts and Remingtons, which did not improve 
their accuracy. 

Edwards, the new marshal of Perry's Bend, had 
come direct from Kansas and his reputation as a 
fighter had preceded him. When he took up his first 
day’s work he was kept busy proving that he was the 
rightful owner of it and that it had not been exag- 
gerated in any manner or degree. With the exception 
of one instance the proof had been bloodless, for he 
reasoned that gun-play should give way, whenever pos- 
sible, to a crushing “ right ” or “ left ” to the point of 
the jaw or the pit of the stomach. His proficiency in 
the manly art was polished and thorough and bespoke 
earnest application. The last doubting Thomas to be 
convinced came to five minutes after his diaphragm 
had been rudely and suddenly raised several inches by 
a low right hook, and as he groped for his bearings 
and got his wind back again he asked, very feebly, 
where “ Kansas ” was ; and the name stuck. 

183 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


The marshal did not like the Oasis ; indeed, he went 
further and cordially hated it. Harlan’s saloon was a 
thorn in his side and he was only waiting for a good 
excuse to wipe it off the local map. He was the Law, 
and behind him were the range riders, who would be 
only too glad to have the nest of rustlers wiped out 
and its gang of ne’er-do-wells scattered to the four 
winds. Indeed, he had been given to understand in a 
most polite and diplomatic way that if this were not 
done lawfully they would try to do it themselves, and 
they had great faith in their ability to handle the sit- 
uation in a thorough and workmanlike manner. This 
would not do in a law-abiding community, as he called 
the town, and so he had replied that the work was his, 
and that it would be performed as soon as he believed 
himself justified to act. Harlan and his friends were 
fully conversant with the feeling against them and had 
become a little more cautious, alertly watching out 
for trouble. 

On the evening of the day which saw Pete Wilson’s 
discomfiture most of the habitues had assembled in the 
Oasis where, besides the card-players already men- 
tioned, eight men lounged against the bar. There was 
some laughter, much subdued talking, and a little whis- 
pering. More whispering went on under that roof 
than in all the other places in town put together; for 
here rustling was planned, wayfaring strangers were 
“ trimmed ” in “ frame-up ” at cards, and a hunted 
man was certain to find assistance. Harlan had once 
184 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


boasted that no fugitive had ever been taken from his 
saloon, and he was behind the bar and standing on 
the trap door which led to the six-by-six cellar when 
he made the assertion. It was true, for only those 
in his confidence knew of the place of refuge under 
the floor: it had been dug at night and the dirt care- 
fully disposed of. 

It had not been dark very long before talking ceased 
and card-playing was suspended while all looked up as 
the front door crashed open and two punchers entered, 
looking the crowd over with critical care. 

“ Stay here, Johnny,” Hopalong told his youthful 
companion, and then walked forward, scrutinizing each 
scowling face in turn, while Johnny stood with his 
back to the door, keenly alert, his right hand resting 
lightly on his belt not far from the holster. 

Harlan’s thick neck grew crimson and his eyes hard. 
“ Lookin’ fer something?” he asked with bitter sar- 
casm, his hands under the bar. Johnny grinned hope- 
fully and a sudden tenseness took possession of him as 
he watched for the first hostile move. 

“ Yes,” Hopalong replied coolly, appraising Har- 
lan’s attitude and look in one swift glance, “ but it 
ain’t here, now. Johnny, get out,” he ordered, back- 
ing after his companion, and safely outside, the two 
walked towards Jackson’s store, Johnny complaining 
about the little time spent in the Oasis. 

As they entered the store they saw Edwards, whose 
eyes asked a question. 

185 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ No ; he ain’t in there yet,” Hopalong replied. 

“ Did you look all over ? Behind th’ bar ? ” Ed- 
wards asked, slowly. “ He can’t get out of town 
through that cordon you’ve got strung around it, an’ he 
ain’t nowhere else. Leastwise, I couldn’t find him.” 

“ Come on back! ” excitedly exclaimed Johnny, turn- 
ing towards the door. “ You didn’t look behind th’ 
bar! Come on — bet you ten dollars that’s where 
he is!” 

“ Mebby yo’re right, Kid,” replied Hopalong, and 
the marshal’s nodding head decided it. 

In the saloon there was strong language, and Jack 
Quinn, expert skinner of other men’s cows, looked 
inquiringly at the proprietor. “ What’s up now, Har- 
lan?” 

The proprietor laughed harshly but said nothing — 
taciturnity was his one redeeming trait. “ Did you 
say cigars ? ” he asked, pushing a box across the bar 
to an impatient customer. Another beckoned to him 
and he leaned over to hear the whispered request, a 
frown struggling to show itself on his face. “Nix; 
you know my rule. No trust in here.” 

But the man at the far end of the line was unlike 
the proprietor and he prefaced his remarks with a 
curse. “ I know what’s up ! They want Jerry Brown, 
that’s what! An’ I hopes they don’t get him, th’ 
bullies!” 

“What did he do? Why do they want him?” 
asked the man who had wanted trust. 

1 86 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


“ Skinning. He was careless or crazy, working so 
close to their ranch houses. Nobody that had any 
sense would take a chance like that,” replied Boston, 
adept at sleight-of-hand with cards and very much in 
demand when a frame-up was to be rung in on some 
unsuspecting stranger. His one great fault in the eyes 
of his partners was that he hated to divvy his winnings 
and at times had to be coerced into sharing equally. 

“ Aw, them big ranches make me mad,” announced 
the first speaker. “ Ten years ago there was a lot of 
little ranchers, an’ every one of ’em had his own herd, 
an’ plenty of free grass an’ water fer it. Where are 
th’ little herds now? Where are th’ cows that we 
used to own ? ” he cried, hotly. “ What happens to a 
maverick-hunter, nowadays? If a man helps hisself 
to a pore, sick dogie he’s hunted down! It can’t go 
on much longer, an’ that’s shore.” 

Slivers Lowe leaped up from his chair. “ Yo’re 
right, Harper! Dead right! I was a little cattle 
owner onct, so was you, an’ Jerry, an’ most of us!” 
Slivers found it convenient to forget that fully half of 
his small herd had perished in the bitter and long win- 
ter of five years before, and that the remainder had 
either flowed down his parched throat or been lost 
across the big round table near the bar. Not a few of 
his cows were banked in the East under Harlan’s name. 

The rear door opened slightly and one of the 
loungers looked up and nodded. “ It’s all right Jerry. 
But get a move on ! ” 


187 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ Here, you!” called Harlan, quickly bending over 
the trap door, “Lively!” 

Jerry was halfway to the proprietor when the front 
door swung open and Hopalong, closely followed by 
the marshal, leaped into the room, and immediately 
thereafter the back door banged open and admitted 
Johnny. Jerry’s right hand was in his side coat 
pocket and Johnny, young and self-confident, and with 
a lot to learn, was certain that he could beat the fugi- 
tive on the draw. 

“ I reckon you won’t blot no more brands ! ” he cried, 
triumphantly, watching both Jerry and Harlan. 

The card-players had leaped to their feet and at a 
signal from Harlan they surged forward to the bar 
and formed a barrier between Johnny and his friends; 
and as they did so that puncher jerked at his gun, twist- 
ing to half face the crowd. At that instant fire and 
smoke spurted from Jerry’s side coat pocket and the 
odor of burning cloth arose. As Johnny fell, the rus- 
tler ducked low and sprang for the door. A gun 
roared twice in the front of the room and Jerry stag- 
gered a little and cursed as he gained the opening, but 
he plunged into the darkness and threw himself into 
the saddle on the first horse he found in the small 
corral. 

When the crowd massed, Hopalong leaped at it and 
strove to tear his way to the opening at the end of the 
bar, while the marshal covered Harlan and the others. 
Finding that he could not get through, Hopalong 
1 88 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


sprang on the shoulder of the nearest man and suc- 
ceeded in winging the fugitive at the first shot, the 
other going wild. Then, frantic with rage and anx- 
iety, he beat his way through the crowd, hammering 
mercilessly at heads with the butt of his Colt, and knelt 
at his friend’s side. 

Edwards, angered almost to the point of killing, or- 
dered the crowd to stand against the wall, and laughed 
viciously when he saw two men senseless on the floor. 
“ Hope he beat in yore heads ! ” he gritted, savagely. 
“ Harlan, put yore paws up in sight or I’ll drill 
you clean! Now climb over an’ get in line — 
quick ! ” 

Johnny moaned and opened his eyes. “ Did — did 
I — get him? ” 

“ No; but he gimleted you, all right,” Hopalong re- 
plied. “ You’ll come ’round if you keep quiet.” He 
arose, his face hard with the desire to kill. “ I’m 
coming back for you , Harlan, after I get yore friend ! 
An’ all th’ rest of you pups, too ! ” 

“ Get me out of here,” whispered Johnny. 

“ Shore enough, Kid ; but keep quiet,” replied Hop- 
along, picking him up in his arms and moving care- 
fully towards the door. “ We’ll get him, Johnny; an’ 
all th’ rest, too, when ” — the voice died out in the di- 
rection of Jackson’s and the marshal, backing to the 
front door, slipped out and to one side, running back- 
ward, his eyes on the saloon. 

“ Yore day’s about over, Harlan,” he muttered. 

189 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ There’s going to be some few funerals around here 
before many hours pass.” 

When he reached the store he found the owner and 
two Double- Arrow punchers taking care of Johnny. 
“Where’s Hopalong?” he asked. 

“ Gone to tell his foreman,” replied Jackson. 
“ Hey, youngster, you let them bandages alone ! 
Hear me? ” 

“ Hullo, Kansas,” remarked John Bartlett, foreman 
of the Double- Arrow. “ I come nigh getting yore 
man ; somebody rode past me like a streak in th’ dark, 
so I just ups an’ lets drive for luck, an’ so did he. I 
heard him cuss an’ I emptied my gun after him.” 

The rain slanted down in sheets and the broken 
plain, thoroughly saturated, held the water in pools or 
sent it down the steep side of the cliff to feed the 
turbulent flood which swept along the bottom, foam- 
flecked and covered with swiftly moving driftwood. 
Around a bend where the angry water flung itself 
against the ragged bulwark of rock and flashed away 
in a gleaming line of foam, a horseman appeared, bend- 
ing low in the saddle for better protection against the 
storm. He rode along the edge of the stream on the 
farther bank, opposite the steep bluff on the northern 
side, forcing his wounded and jaded horse to keep fet- 
lock deep in the water which swirled and sucked about 
its legs. He was trying his hardest to hide his trail. 
Lower down the hard, rocky ground extended to the 
190 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


water’s edge, and if he could delay his pursuers for an 
hour or so, he felt that, even with his tired horse, he 
would have more than an even chance. 

But they had gained more than he knew. Sud- 
denly above him on the top of the steep bluff across the 
torrent a man loomed up against the clouds, peered 
intently and then waved his sombrero to an unseen 
companion. A puff of smoke flashed from his shoul- 
der and streaked away, the report of the shot lost in 
the gale. The fugitive’s horse reared and plunged 
into the deep water and with its rider was swept 
rapidly towards the bend, the way they had 
come. 

“ That makes th’ fourth time I’ve missed that 
coyote ! ” angrily exclaimed Hopalong as Red Connors 
joined him. 

The other quickly raised his rifle and fired; and the 
horse, spilling its rider out of the saddle, floated away 
tail first. The fugitive, gripping his rifle, bobbed and 
whirled at the whim of the greedy water as shots struck 
near him. Making a desperate effort, he staggered up 
the bank and fell exhausted behind a bowlder. 

“ Well, th’ coyote is afoot, anyhow,” said Red, with 
great satisfaction. 

“ Yes ; but how are we going to get to him? ” asked 
Hopalong. “ We can’t get th’ cayuses down here, an’ 
we can’t swim that water without them. And if we 
could, he’d pot us easy.” 

“ There’s a way out of it somewhere,” Red replied, 
191 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


disappearing over the edge of the bluff to gamble with 
Fate. 

“ Hey! Come back here, you chump! ” cried Hop- 
along, running forward. “ He’ll get you, shore !” 

“ That’s a chance I’ve got to take if I get him,” was 
the reply. 

A puff of smoke sailed from behind the bowlder on 
the other bank and Hopalong, kneeling for steadier 
aim, fired and then followed his friend. Red was 
downstream casting at a rock across the torrent but 
the wind toyed with the heavy, water-soaked reata as 
though it were a string. As Hopalong reached his side 
a piece of driftwood ducked under the water and an 
angry humming sound died away downstream. As 
the report reached their ears a jet of water spurted up 
into Red’s face and he stepped back involuntarily. 

“ He’s some shaky,” Hopalong remarked, looking 
back at the wreath of smoke above the bowlder. “ I 
reckon I must have hit him harder than I thought in 
Harlan’s. Gee! he’s wild as blazes!” he ejaculated 
as a bullet hummed high above his head and struck 
sharply against the rock wall. 

“ Yes,” Red replied, coiling the rope. “ I was try- 
ing to rope that rock over there. If I could anchor 
to that, th’ current would push us over quick. But it’s 
too far with this wind blowing.” 

“ We can’t do nothing here ’cept get plugged. 
He’ll be getting steadier as he rests from his fight with 
th’ water,” Hopalong remarked, and added quickly, 
192 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


“ Say, remember that meadow back there r, ways ? 
We can make her from there, all right.” 

“ Yo’re right; that’s what we’ve got to do. He’s 
sending ’em nearer every shot — Gee ! I could ’most 
feel th’ wind of that one. An’ blamed if it ain’t 
stopped raining. Come on.” 

They clambered up the slippery, muddy bank to 
where they had left their horses, and cantered back 
over their trail. Minute after minute passed before 
the cautious skulker among the rocks across the stream 
could believe in his good fortune. When he at last de- 
cided that he was alone again he left his shelter and 
started away, with slowly weakening stride, over 
cleanly washed rock where he left no trail. 

It was late in the afternoon before the two irate 
punchers appeared upon the scene, and their comments, 
as they hunted slowly over the hard ground, were nu- 
merous and bitter. Deciding that it was hopeless in 
that vicinity, they began casting in great circles on the 
chance of crossing the trail further back from the 
river. But they had little faith in their success. As 
Red remarked, snorting like a horse in his disgust, 
“ I’ll bet four dollars an’ a match he’s swum down th’ 
river just to have th’ laugh on us.” Red had long 
since given it up as a bad job, though continuing to 
search, when a shout from the distant Hopalong sent 
him forward on a run. 

“ Hey, Red ! ” cried Hopalong, pointing ahead of 
them. “ Look there ! Ain’t that a house ? ” 

193 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“Naw; course not! It's a — it’s a ship!” Red 
snorted sarcastically. “ What did you think it might 
be?” 

“ G’wan ! ” retorted his companion. “ It’s a mis- 
sion.” 

“ Ah, g’wan yorself ! What’s a mission doing up 
here ? ” Red snapped. 

“ What do you think they do ? What do they do 
anywhere? ” hotly rejoined Hopalong, thinking about 
Johnny. “There! See th’ cross ? ” 

“ Shore enough ! ” 

“ An’ there’s tracks at last — mighty wobbly, 
but tracks just th’ same. Them rocks couldn’t go 
on forever. Red, I’ll bet he’s cashed in by this 
time.” 

“Cashed nothing! Them fellers don’t.” 

“ Well, if he’s in that joint we might as well go 
back home. We won’t get him, not nohow,” declared 
Hopalong. 

“Huh! You wait an’ see!” replied Red, pugna- 
ciously. 

“ Reckon you never run up agin’ a mission real 
hard,” Hopalong responded, his memory harking back 
to the time he had disagreed with a convent, and they 
both meant about the same to him as far as winning 
out was concerned. 

“ Think I’m a fool kid ? ” snapped Red, aggressively. 

“ Well, you ain’t no kid” 

“ You let me do th’ talking; I'll get him.” 

194 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


“ All right; an’ I’ll do th’ laughing,” snickered Hop- 
along, at the door. “ Sic ’em, Red ! ” 

The other boldly stepped into a small vestibule, Hop- 
along close at his heels. Red hitched his holster and 
walked heavily into a room at his left. With the ex- 
ception of a bench, a table, and a small altar, the 
room was devoid of furnishings, and the effect of these 
was lost in the dim light from the narrow windows. 
The peculiar, not unpleasant odor of burning incense 
and the dim light awakened a latent reverence and awe 
in Hopalong, and he sneaked off his sombrero, an inex- 
plicable feeling of guilt stealing over him. There 
were three doors in the walls, deeply shrouded in the 
dusk of the room, and it was very hard to watch all 
three at once. . . . 

Red listened intently and then grinned. “ Hear 
that? They’re playing dominoes in there — come 
on!” 

“ Aw, you chump ! ‘ Dominee ’ means ‘ mother ’ in 

Latin, which is what th^y speaks.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ Hanged if I can tell — I’ve heard it somewhere, 
that’s all.” 

“ Well, I don’t care what it means. This is a frame- 
up so that coyote can get away. I’ll bet they gave him 
a cayuse an’ started him off while we’ve been losing 
time in here. I’m going inside an’ ask some ques- 
tions.” 

Before he could put his plan into execution, Hop- 
195 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


along nudged him and he turned to see his friend star- 
ing at one of the doors. There had been no sound, 
but he would swear that a monk stood gravely regard- 
ing them, and he rubbed his eyes. He stepped back 
suspiciously and then started forward again. 

“ Look here, stranger,” he remarked, with quiet 
emphasis, “ we’re after that cow-lifter, an’ we mean 
to get him. Savvy? ” 

The monk did not appear to hear him, so he tried 
another trick. “ Habla espanola? ” he asked, experi- 
mentally. 

“ You have ridden far?” replied the monk in per- 
fect English. 

“ All th’ way from th’ Bend,” Red replied, relieved. 
“ We’re after Jerry Brown. He tried to kill Johnny, 
judgin’ from th’ tracks.” 

“ And if you capture him? ” 

“ He won’t have no more use for no side pocket 
shooting.” 

“ I see; you will kill him.” 

“ Shore’s it’s wet outside.” 

“ I’m afraid you are doomed to disappointment.” 

“ Ya-as?” asked Red with a rising inflection. 

“You will not want him now,” replied the monk. 

Red laughed sarcastically and Hopalong smiled. 

“ There ain’t a-going to be no argument about it. 
Trot him out,” ordered Red, grimly. 

The monk turned to Hopalong. “Do you, too, 
want him? ” 


196 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 


Hopalong nodded. 

“ My friends, he is safe from your punishment.” 

Red wheeled instantly and ran outside, returning in 
a few moments, smiling triumphantly. “ There are 
tracks coming in, but there ain’t none going away. 
He’s here. If you don’t lead us to him we’ll shore 
have to rummage around an’ poke him out for our- 
selves: which is it? ” 

“ You are right — he is here, and he is not here.” 

“ We’re waiting,” Red replied, grinning. 

“ When I tell you that you will not want him, do 
you still insist on seeing him ? ” 

“ We’ll see him, an’ we’ll want him, too.” 

As the rain poured down again the sound of ap- 
proaching horses was heard, and Hopalong ran to the 
door in time to see Buck Peters swing off his mount 
and step forward to enter the building. Hopalong 
stopped him and briefly outlined the situation, beg- 
ging him to keep the men outside. The monk met his 
return with a grateful smile and, stepping forward, 
opened the chapel door, saying, “ Follow me.” 

The unpretentious chapel was small and nearly dark, 
for the usual dimness was increased by the lowering 
clouds outside. The deep, narrow window openings, 
fitted with stained glass, ran almost to the rough-hewn 
rafters supporting the steep-pitched roof, upon which 
the heavy rain beat again with a sound like that of 
distant drums. Gusts of rain and the water from the 
roof beat against the south windows, while the wailing 
197 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


wind played its mournful cadences about the eaves, and 
the stanch timbers added their creaking notes to swell 
the dirgelike chorus. 

At the farther end of the room two figures knelt 
and moved before the white altar, the soft light of 
flickering candles playing fitfully upon them and glint- 
ing from the altar ornaments, while before a rough 
coffin, which rested upon two pedestals, stood a third, 
whose rich, sonorous Latin filled the chapel with im- 
pressive sadness. “ Give eternal rest to them, O 
Lord,” — the words seeming to become a part of the 
room. The ineffably sad, haunting melody of the mass 
whispered back from the roof between the assaults of 
the enraged wind, while from the altar came the re- 
sponses in a low Gregorian chant, and through it all 
the clinking of the censer chains added intermittent 
notes. Aloft streamed the vapor of the incense, wav- 
ering with the air currents, now lost in the deep twi- 
light of the sanctuary, and now faintly revealed by the 
glow of the candles, perfuming the air with its aroma- 
tic odor. 

As the last deep-toned words died away the celebrant 
moved slowly around the coffin, swinging the censer 
over it and then, sprinkling the body and making the 
sign of the cross above its head, solemnly withdrew. 

From the shadows along the side walls other figures 
silently emerged and grouped around the coffin. Rais- 
ing it they turned it slowly around and carried it down 
198 


THE END OF THE TRAIL 

the dim aisle in measured tread, moving silently as 
ghosts. 

“ He is with God, Who will punish according to his 
sins,” said a low voice, and Hopalong started, for he 
had forgotten the presence of the guide. “ God be 
with you, and may you die as he died — repentant and 
in peace.” 

Buck chafed impatiently before the chapel door lead- 
ing to a small, well-kept graveyard, wondering what 
it was that kept quiet for so long a time his two most 
assertive men, when he had momentarily expected to 
hear more or less turmoil and confusion. 

C-r-e-a-k! He glanced up, gun in hand and raised 
as the door swung slowly open. His hand dropped 
suddenly and he took a short step forward; six black- 
robed figures shouldering a long box stepped slowly 
past him, and his nostrils were assailed by the pungent 
odor of the incense. Behind them came his fighting 
punchers, humble, awed, reverent, their sombreros in 
their hands, and their heads bowed. 

“ What in blazes ! ” exclaimed Buck, wonder and 
surprise struggling for the mastery as the others can- 
tered up. 

“ He’s cashed,” Red replied, putting on his som- 
brero and nodding toward the procession. 

Buck turned like a flash and spoke sharply : 
“ Skinny! Lanky! Follow that glory-outfit, an’ see 
what’s in that box ! ” 


199 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Billy Williams grinned at Red. “ Yo’re shore 
pious, Red/' 

“ Shut up ! ” snapped Red, anger glinting in his 
eyes, and Billy subsided. 

Lanky and Skinney soon returned from accompany- 
ing the procession. 

“ I had to look twict to be shore it was him. His 
face was plumb happy, like a baby. But he’s gone, all 
right,” Lanky reported. . . . 

“ All right — he knowed how he’d finish when he 
began. Now for that dear Mr. Harlan,” Buck re- 
plied, vaulting into the saddle. He turned and looked 
at Hopalong, and his wonder grew. “ Hey, you! 
Yes, you! Come out of that an’ put on yore lid! 
Straddle leather — we can’t stay here all night.” 

Hopalong started, looked at his sombrero and 
silently obeyed. As they rode down the trail and 
around a corner he turned in his saddle and looked 
back ; and then rode on, buried in thought. 

Billy, grinning, turned and playfully punched him 
in the ribs. “ Gettin’ glory, Hoppy?” 

Hopalong raised his head and looked him steadily in 
the eyes; and Billy, losing his curiosity and the grin 
at the same instant, looked ahead, whistling softly. 


- 


IX. — Dey Ain’t No Ghosts 1 

By Ellis Parker Butler 

O NCE ’pon a time dey was a li’l black boy whut 
he name was Mose. An’ whin he come erlong 
to be ’bout knee-high to a mewel, he ’gin to 
git powerful ’fraid ob ghosts, ’ca’se dey’s a grabeyard 
in de hollow, an’ a bury in’ -ground on de hill, an’ a 
cemuntary in betwixt an’ between, an’ dey ain’t nuffin’ 
but trees nowhar in de clearin’ by de shanty an’ down 
de hollow whar de pumpkin-patch am. 

An’ whin de night come erlong, dey ain’t no sounds 
at all whut kin be heard in dat locality but de rain- 

1 Copyright, 1913, by the Century Company. Reprinted by 
special permission of the author. 

201 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


doves, whut mourn out, “ Oo-00-o-o-o! ” jes dat trem- 
bulous an’ scary, an’ de owls, whut mourn out, “ Whut- 
whoo- 0-0-0 ! ” more trembulous an’ scary dan dat, an’ 
de wind, whut mourn out, “ You-yow-o-o-o ! ” mos’ 
scandalous, trembulous an’ scary ob all. Dat a pow- 
erful onpleasant locality for a li’l black boy whut he 
name was Mose. 

’Ca’se dat li’l black boy he so specially black he can’t 
be seen in de dark at all ’cept by de whites ob he eyes. 
So whin he go outen de house at night, he ain’t dast 
shut he eyes, ’ca’se den ain’t nobody can see him in de 
least. He jest as invidsible as nuffin’ ! An’ who know 
but whut a great, big ghost bump right into him ’ca’se 
it can’t see him? An’ dat shore w’u’d scare dat li’l 
black boy powerful bad, ’ca’se yever’body knows whut 
a cold, damp pussonality a ghost is. 

So whin dat li’l black Mose go’ outen de shanty at 
night, he keep he eyes wide open, you may be shore. 
By day he eyes ’bout de size ob butter-pats, an’ come 
sundown he eyes ’bout de size ob saucers ; but whin he 
go outer de shanty at night, he eyes am de size ob de 
white chiny plate whut set on de mantel ; an’ it power- 
ful hard to keep eyes whut am de size ob dat from 
a-winkin’ an’ a-blinkin’. 

So whin Hallowe’en come erlong, dat li’l black Mose 
he jes mek up he mind he ain’t gwine outen de shack at 
all. He cogitate he gwine stay right snug in de shack 
wid he pa an’ he ma, ’ca’se de rain-doves tek notice dat 
de ghosts are philanderin’ roun’ de country, ’ca’se dey 
202 


DEY AIN’T NO GHOSTS 


mourn out, “ Oo-oo-o-o-o!” an’ de owls dey mourn 
out, “ You-yow-o-o-o ! ” De eyes ob dat li’l black 
Mose dey as big as de white chiny plate whut set on 
de mantel by side de clock, an’ de sun jes a-settin’ ! 

So dat all right. Li’l black Mose he scrooge back in 
de corner by de fireplace, an’ he ’low he gwine stay 
dere till he gwine to bed. But bimeby Sally Ann, whut 
live up de road, draps in, an’ Mistah Sally Ann, whut is 
her husban’, he draps in an’ Zack Badget an’ de school- 
teacher whut board at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house drap 
in, an’ a powerful lot ob folks drap in. An’ li’l black 
Mose he seen dat gwine be one s’prise party, an’ he 
right down cheerful ’bout dat. 

So all dem folks shake dere hands an’ ’low 
“ Howdy,” an’ some ob dem say : “ Why, dere’s li’l 
Mose! Howdy, li’l Mose?” An’ he so please he jes 
grin an’ grin, ’ca’se he ain’t reckon whut gwine happen. 
So bimeby Sally Ann, whut live up de road, she say, 
“ Ain’t no sort o’ Hallowe’en lest we got a jack-o’- 
lantern.” An’ de school-teacher, whut board at Unc’ 
Silas Diggs’s house, she ’low, “ Hallowe’en jes no 
Hallowe’en at all ’thout we got a jack-o’-lantern.” 
An’ li’l black Mose he stop a-grinnin’, an’ he scrooge so 
far back in de corner he ’most scrooge f rough de wall. 
But dat ain’t no use, ’ca’se he ma say, “ Mose, go on 
down to de pumpkin-patch an’ fotch a pumpkin.” 

“ I ain’t want to go,” say li’l black Mose. 

“ Go on erlong wid yo’,” say he ma, right com- 
mandin’. 


203 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ I ain’t want to go,” say Mose ag’in. 

“ Why ain’t yo’ want to go? ” he ma ask. 

“ ’Ca’se I’s afraid ob de ghosts,” say li’l black 
Mose, an’ dat de particular truth an’ no mistake. 

“ Dey ain’t no ghosts,” say de school-teacher, whut 
board at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house, right peart. 

“ ’Co’se dey ain’t no ghosts,” say Zack Badget, whut 
dat ’feared ob ghosts he ain’t dar’ come to li’l black 
Mose’s house ef de school-teacher ain’t ercompany him. 

“ Go ’long wid your ghosts ! ” say li’l black Mose’s 
ma. 

“ Wha’ yo’ pick up dat nonsense ? ” say he pa. 
“ Dey ain’t no ghosts.” 

An’ dat whut all dat s’prise-party ’lows : dey ain’t no 
ghosts. An’ dey ’low dey mus’ hab a jack-o’-lantern 
or de fun all spiled. So dat li’l black boy whut he 
name is Mose he done got to fotch a pumpkin from de 
pumpkin-patch down de hollow. So he step outen de 
shanty an’ he stan’ on de doorstep twell he get he 
eyes pried open as big as de bottom ob he ma’s wash- 
tub, mostly, an’ he say, “ Dey ain’t no ghosts.” An’ 
he put one foot on de ground, an’ dat was de fust 
step. 

An’ de rain-dove say, “ Oo-oo-o-o-o ! ” 

An’ li’l black Mose he tuck anudder step. 

An’ de owl mourn out, “ Whut-whoo-o-o-o ! ” 

An’ li’l black Mose he tuck anudder step. 

An’ de wind sob out, “ You-yow-o-o-o! ” 

An’ li’l black Mose he tuck one look ober he shoul- 
204 


DEY AIN’T NO GHOSTS 


der an’ he shut he eyes so tight dey hurt round de 
aidges, an’ he pick up he foots an’ run. Yas, sah, he 
run right peart fast. An’ he say : “ Dey ain’t no 
ghosts. Dey ain’t no ghosts.” An’ he run erlong de 
paff whut lead by de buryin’-ground on de hill, 
’ca’se dey ain’t no fince eround dat buryin’-ground at 
all. 

No fince; jes de big trees whut de owls an’ de rain- 
doves sot in an’ mourn an’ sob, an’ whut de wind sigh 
an’ cry f rough. An’ bimeby somefin’ jes brush liT 
Mose on de arm, which mek him run jest a bit more 
faster. An’ bimeby somefin’ jes brush li’l Mose on de 
cheek, which mek him run erbout as fast as he can. 
An’ bimeby somefin’ grab li’l Mose by de aidge of he 
coat, an’ he fight an’ struggle an’ cry out : “ Dey ain’t 
no ghosts. Dey ain’t no ghosts.” An’ dat ain’t nu fi- 
lin’ but de wild brier whut grab him, an’ dat ain’t nuf- 
fin’ but de leaf ob a tree whut brush he cheek, an’ dat 
ain’t nuffin’ but de branch ob a hazel-bush whut brush 
he arm. But he downright scared jes de same, an’ he 
ain’t lost no time, ’ca’se de wind an’ de owls an’ de rain- 
doves dey signerfy whut ain’t no good. So he scoot 
past dat buryin’-ground whut on de hill, an’ dat cemun- 
tary whut betwixt an’ between, an’ dat grabeyard in de 
hollow, twell he come to de pumpkin-patch, an’ he rotch 
down an’ tek erhold ob de bestest pumpkin whut in de 
patch. An’ he right smart scared. He jes de mostest 
scared li’l black boy whut yever was. He ain’t gwine 
open he eyes fo’ nuffin’, ’ca’se de wind go, “ You -you- 
205 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


o-o-o !” an’ de owls go, “ Whut-w/100-0-0-0 ! ” an’ de 
rain-doves go, “ Oo-00-o-o-o ! ” 

He jes speculate, “ Dey ain’t no ghosts,” an’ wish he 
hair don’t stand on ind dat way. An’ he jes cogitate, 
“ Dey ain’t no ghosts,” an’ wish he goose-pimples don’t 
rise up dat way. An’ he jes ’low, “ Dey ain’t no 
ghosts,” an’ wish he backbone ain’t all trembulous wid 
chills dat way. So he rotch down, an’ he rotch down, 
twell he git a good hold on dat pricklesome stem of dat 
bestest pumpkin whut in de patch, an’ he jes yank dat 
stem wid all he might. 

“ Let loosen my head! ” say a big voice all on a sud- 
dent. 

Dat li’l black boy whut he name is Mose he jump 
’most outen he skin. He open he eyes an’ he ’gin to 
shake like de aspen tree, ’ca’se whut dat a-standin’ right 
dar behind him but a ’mendjous big ghost! Yas, sah, 
dat de bigges’, whites’ ghost whut yever was. An’ it 
ain’t got no head. Ain’t go no head at all. Li’l black 
Mose he jest drap on he knees an’ he beg an’ pray : 

“Oh, ’scuse me! ’Scuse me, Mistah Ghost!” he 
beg. “ Ah ain’t mean no harm at all.” 

“ Whut for you try to take my head ? ” as’ de ghost 
in dat fearsome voice whut like de damp wind outen 
de cellar. 

“’Scuse me! ’Scuse me!” beg li’l Mose. “Ah 
ain’t know dat was yo’ head, an’ I ain’t know you was 
dar at all. ’Scuse me! ” 

“ Ah ’scuse you ef you do me dis favor,” say de 
206 


DEY AIN’T NO GHOSTS 

ghost. " Ah got somefin’ powerful important to say 
unto you, an’ Ah can’t say hit ’ca’se Ah ain’t got no 
head; an’ whin Ah ain’t got no head, Ah ain’t got no 
mouf, an’ whin Ah ain’t got no mouf, Ah can’t talk at 
all.” 

An’ dat right logical fo’ shore. Can’t nobody talk 
whin he ain’t got no mouf, an’ can’t nobody have no 
mouf whin he ain’t got no head, an’ whin li’l black 
Mose he look, he see dat ghost ain’t go no head at all. 
Nary head. 

So de ghost say: 

“ Ah come on down yere fo’ to git a pumpkin fo’ a 
head, an’ Ah pick dat ixact pumpkin whut yo’ gwine 
tek, an’ Ah don’t like dat one bit. No, sah. Ah feel 
like Ah pick yo’ up an’ carry yo’ away, an’ nobody 
see you no more for yever. But Ah got somefin’ pow- 
erful important to say unto yo', an’ if yo’ pick up dat 
pumpkin an’ sot it on de place whar my head ought to 
be, Ah let you off dis time, ’ca’se Ah ain’t been able to 
talk fo’ so long Ah’m right hongry to say somefin’ ! ” 

So li’l black Mose he heft up dat pumpkin, an’ de 
ghost he bent down, an’ li’l black Mose he sot dat 
pumpkin on dat ghostses neck. An’ right off dat 
pumpkin head ’gin to wink an’ blink like a jack-o’-lan- 
tern, an’ right off dat pumpkin head ’gin to glimmer 
an’ glow f rough de mouf like a jack-o’-lantern, an’ 
right off dat ghost start to speak. Yas, sah, dass so. 

“ Whut yo’ want to say unto me ? ” inquire li’l black 
Mose. 


207 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ Ah want to tell yo’,” say de ghost, “ dat yo’ ain't 
need yever be skeered of ghosts, ’ca’se dey ain’t no 
ghosts.” 

An’ whin he say dat de ghost jes vanish away like 
de smoke in July. He ain’t even linger round dat 
locality like de smoke in Yoctober. He jes dissipate 
outen de air, an’ he gone ini irely. 

So li’l Mose he grab up de nex’ bestest pumpkin an’ 
he scoot. An’ whin he come to de grabeyard in de 
hollow, he goin’ erlong same as yever, on’y faster, whin 
he reckon, he’ll pick up a club in case he gwine have 
trouble. An’ he rotch down an’ rotch down, an’ tek 
hold of a lively appearin’ hunk o’ wood whut right dar. 
An’ whin he grab dat hunk of wood. . . 

“Let loosen my leg!” say a big voice all on a sud- 
dent. 

Dat li’l black boy ’most jump outen he skin, ’ca’se 
right dar in de paff is six ’mendjus big ghosts, an’ de 
bigges’ ain’t got but one leg. So li’l black Mose jes 
natchully handed dat hunk of wood to dat bigges’ 
ghost, an’ he say : 

“ ’Scuse me, Mistah Ghost ; Ah ain’t know dis your 
leg.” 

An’ whut dem six ghostes do but stand round an’ 
confabulate? Yas, sah, dass so. An’ whin dey do so, 
one say: 

“ ’Pears like dis a mighty likely li’l black boy. 
Whut we gwine do fo’ to re ward him fo’ polite- 
ness ? ” 


208 


DEY AIN’T NO GHOSTS 


“ Tell him whut de truth is ’bout ghosts.” 

So de bigges’ ghost he say : 

“ Ah gwine tell yo’ somethin’ important whut yever- 
body don’t know : Dey ain't no ghosts.” 

An’ whin he say dat, de ghosts jes natchully vanish 
away, an’ li’l black Mose he proceed up de paff. He 
so scared he hair jes yank at de roots, an’ when de wind 
go “ Oo-00-oo-o-o,” an’ de owl go, “ Whut -whoo- 
o-o-o !” an’ de rain-doves go, “ You-yow-o-o-o! ” he 
jes tremble an’ shake. An’ bimeby he come to de cemun- 
tary whut betwixt an’ between, an’ he shore is mighty 
skeered, ’ca’se dey is a whole comp’ny of ghostes lined 
up along de road, an’ he ’low he ain’t gwine spind no 
more time palaverin’ wid ghostes. So he step offen de 
road fo’ to go round erbout, an’ he step on a pine-stump 
whut lay right dar. 

" Git offen my chest! ” say a big voice all on a sud- 
dent, ’ca’se dat stump am been selected by de captain 
ob de ghostes for to be he chest, ’ca’se he ain’t got no 
chest betwixt he shoulders an’ he legs. An’ li’l black 
Mose he hop offen dat stump right peart. Yes, sah; 
right peart. 

“ ’Scuse me! ’Scuse me! ” dat li’l black Mose beg 
an’ pleed, an’ de ghostes ain’t know whuther to eat him 
all up or not, ’ca’se he step on de boss ghostes’s chest 
dat a-way. But bimeby they ’low they let him go 
’ca’se dat was an accident, an’ de captain ghost he say, 
“ Mose, you Mose, Ah gwine let you off dis time, ’ca’se 
you ain’t nuffin’ but a misabul li’l tremblin’ nigger; but 
209 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Ah want you should remimber one thing mos’ particu- 
lar’” 

“ Ya-yas, sail,” say dat liT black boy; “ Ah’ll renum- 
ber. What is dat Ah got to remimber? ” 

De captain ghost he swell up, an’ he swell up, twell 
he as big as a house, an’ he say in a voice whut shake 
de ground : 

“ Dey ain’t no ghosts.” 

So li’l black Mose he bound to remimber dat, an’ he 
rise up an’ mek a bow, an’ he proceed toward home 
right libely. He do, indeed. 

An’ he gwine along jes as fast as he kin whin he 
come to de aidge ob de buryin’-ground whut on de hill, 
an’ right dar he bound to stop, ’ca’se de kentry round 
about am so populate he ain’t able to go frough. Yas, 
sah, seem like all de ghostes in de world havin’ de con- 
ferince right dar. Seem like all de ghosteses whut 
yever was am havin’ a convintion on dat spot. An’ 
dat li’l black Mose so skeered he jes fall down on e’ old 
log whut dar an’ screech an’ moan ! An’ all on a sud- 
dent de log up and spoke to li’l Mose : 

“ Get offen me! Get offen me! ” yell dat log. 

So li’l black Mose he git offen dat log, an’ no mis- 
take. 

An’ soon as he git offen de log, de log uprise, an’ li’l 
black Mose he see dat dat log am de king ob all de 
ghostes. An’ whin de king uprise, all de congregation 
crowd round li’l black Mose, an’ dey am about leben 
millium an’ a few lift over. Yes, sah; dat de reg’lar 
210 


DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS 

annyul Hallowe’en convintion whut li’l black Mose in- 
terrup. Right dar am all de sperits in de world, an’ all 
de ha’nts in de world, an’ all de hobgoblins in de 
world, an’ all de ghouls in de world, an’ all de spicters 
in de world, an’ all de ghostes in de world. An’ whin 
dey see li’l black Mose, dey all gnash dey teef an’ grin 
’ca’se it gettin’ erlong toward dey-all’s lunchtime. So 
de king, whut he name old Skull-an’-Bones, he step on 
top ob li’l Mose’s head, an’ he say : 

“ Gin’l’min, de convintion will come to order. De 
sicretary please note who is prisint. De firs’ business 
whut come before de convintion am : whut we gwine 
do to a li’l black boy whut stip on de king an’ maul 
all ober de king an’ treat de king dat disdespictful.” 

An’ li’l black Mose jes moan an’ sob: 

“ ’Scuse me! ’Scuse me, Mistah King! Ah ain’t 
mean no harm at all.” 

But nobody ain’t pay no attintion to him at all, 
’ca’se yevery one lookin’ at a monstrous big ha’nt whut 
name Bloody Bones, whut rose up an’ spoke. 

“ Your Honor, Mistah King, an’ gin’l’min an* 
ladies,” he say, “ dis am a right bad case ob lazy 
majesty, ’ca’se de king been step on. Whin yevery li’l 
black boy whut choose gwine wander round at night 
an’ stip on de king of ghostes, it ain’t no time for to 
palaver, it ain’t no time for to prevaricate, it ain’t no 
time for to cogitate, it ain’t no time do nuffin’ but tell 
de truth, an’ de whole truth, an’ nuffin but de truth.” 

An’ all dem ghostes sicond de motion, an’ dey can- 
211 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


fabulate out loud erbout it, an’ de noise soun like de 
rain-doves goin’, “ Oo-oo-o-o-o! ” an’ de owls goin’, 
“ Whut-ze//mo-o-o-o ! ” an’ de wind goin’, “You -you- 
o-o-o ! ” So dat risolution am passed unanermous, an’ 
no mistake. 

So de king ob de ghosts, whut name old Skull-an’- 
Bones, he place he hand on de head ob li’l black Mose, 
an’ he hand feel like a wet rag, an’ he say : 

“ Dey ain’t no ghosts.” 

An’ one ob de hairs whut on de head ob li’l black 
Mose turn white. 

An’ de monstrous big ha’nt whut he name Bloody 
Bones he lay he hand on de head ob li’l black Mose, and 
he hand feel like a toadstool in de cool ob de day, an’ 
he say: 

“ Dey ain’t no ghosts.” 

An’ anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li’l black 
Mose turn white. 

An’ a heejus sperit whut he name Moldy Pa’m place 
he hand on de head ob li’l black Mose, an’ he hand feel 
like ye yunner side ob a lizard, an’ he say : 

“ Dey ain’t no ghosts.” 

An’ anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li’l 
black Mose turn white as snow. 

An’ a perticklar bent-up hobgoblin he put hand 
on de head ob li’l black Mose, an’ he mek dat same re - 
mark, and dat whole convintion ob ghostes an’ spicters 
an’ ha’nts an’ yever-thing, which am more ’n a millium, 
pass by so quick dey-all’s hands feel lak de wind whut 
212 


DEY AIN’T NO GHOSTS 


blow outen de cellar whin de day am hot, an’ dey-all 
say, “ Dey ain’t no ghosts.” Yas, sah, dey-all say dem 
wo’ds so fas’ it soun like de wind whin it moan frough 
de turkentine-trees whut behind de cider-priss. An’ 
ye very hair whut on li’l black Mose’s head turn white. 
Dat whut happen whin a li’l black boy gwine meet a 
ghost convintion dat a-way. Dat’s so he ain’t gwine 
fergit to remimber dey ain’t no ghosts. ’Ca’se ef a 
li’l black boy gwine imaginate dey is ghostes, he gwine 
be skeered in de dark. An’ dat a foolish thing for to 
imaginate. 

So prisintly all de ghostes am whiff away, like de 
fog outen de holler whin de wind blow’ on it, an’ li’l 
black Mose he ain’ see ’ca’se for to remain in dat local- 
ity no longer. He rotch down, an’ he raise up de 
pumpkin, an’ he perambulate right quick to he ma’s 
shack, an’ he lift up de latch, an’ he open de do’, an’ 
he yenter in. An’ he say : 

“ Yere’s de pumpkin.” 

An’ he ma an’ he pa, an’ Sally Ann, whut live up de 
road, an’ Mistah Sally Ann, whut her husban’, an’ 
Zack Badget, an’ de school-teacher whut board at Unc’ 
Silas Diggs’s house, an’ all de powerful lot of folks 
whut come to de doin’s, dey all scrooged back in de 
comder ob de shack, ’ca’se Zack Badget he been done 
tell a ghost-tale, an’ de rain-doves gwine “ Ooo-00- 
0-0-0 ! ” an’ de owls am gwine, “ W hut-wh 00-0-0-0 ! ” 
and de wind it gwine, “ You-yow-o-o-o! ” an’ yever- 
body powerful skeered. ’Ca’se li’l black Mose he come 
213 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


a-fumblin’ an’ a- rattlin’ at de do’ jes whin dat ghost- 
tale mos’ skeery, an’ yever’body gwine imaginate dat de 
ghost a-fumblin’ an’ a-rattlin’ at de do’. Yas, sah. 
So li’l black Mose he turn he white head, an’ he look 
roun’ an’ peer roun’, an’ he say: 

“ Whut you all skeered fo’ ? ” 

’Ca’se ef anybody skeered, he want to be skeered, 
too. Dat’s natural. But de school-teacher, whut live 
at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house, she say: 

“ Fo’ de Ian’s sake, we fought you was a ghost ! ” 

So li’l black Mose he sort ob sniff an’ he sort ob 
sneer, an’ he ’low: 

“ Huh! dey ain’t no ghosts.” 

Den he ma she powerful took back dat li’l black 
Mose he gwine be so upotish an’ contrydict folks whut 
know ’rifmeticks an’ algebricks an’ gin’ral countin’ 
widout fingers, like de school-teacher whut board at 
Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house knows, an’ she say: 

“ Huh ; whut you know ’bout ghosts, anner way ? ” 

An’ li’l black Mose he jes kinder stan’ on one foot, 
an’ he jes kinder suck he thumb, an’ he jes kinder 
’low: 

“ I don’ know nuffin’ erbout ghosts, ’ca’se dey ain’t 
no ghosts.” 

So he pa gwine whop him fo’ tellin’ a fib ’bout dey 
ain’t no ghosts whin yevev’body know dey is ghosts; 
but de school-teacher, whut board at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s 
house, she tek note de hair ob li’l black Mose’s head 
am plumb white, an’ she tek note li’l black Mose’s face 
214 


DEY AIN’T NO GHOSTS 


am de color of wood-ash, so she jes retch one arm 
round dat li’l black boy, an’ she jes snuggle him up, 
an’ she say: 

“ Honey lamb, don’t you be skeered ; ain’ nobody 
gwine hurt you. How you know dey ain’t no 
ghosts ? ” 

An’ li’l black Mose he kinder lean up ’g’inst de 
school-teacher whut board at Unc’ Silas Diggs’s house, 
an’ he ’low : 

“ ’Ca’se — ’ca’se — ’ca’se I met de cap’n ghost, an’ I 
met de gin’ral ghost, an’ I met de king ghost, an’ I met 
all de ghostes whut yever was in de whole work, an’ 
yevery ghost say de same thing : ‘ Dey ain’t no ghosts.’ 
An’ if de cap’n ghost an’ de gin’ral ghost an’ de king 
ghost an’ all de ghostes in de whole worl’ don’ know 
ef dar am ghostes, who does? ” 

“ Das right ; das right, honey lamb,” say de school- 
teacher. An’ she say : “ I been s’picious dey ain’ no 
ghostes dis long whiles, an’ now I know. Ef all de 
ghostes say dey ain’ no ghosts, dey ain’ no ghosts.” 

So yever’body ’low dat o cep’ Zack Badget, whut 
been tellin’ de ghost-tale, an’ he ain’ gwine say “ Yis ” 
an’ he ain’ gwine say “ No,” ’ca’se he right sweet 
on de school-teacher; but he know right well he done 
seen plinty ghostes in he day. So he boun’ to be sure 
fust. So he say to li’l black Mose: 

“ ’Tain’ likely you met up wid a monstrous big 
ha’nt whut live down de lane whut he name Bloody 
Bones?” 


215 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ Yas,” say liT black Mose, “ I done met up wid 

“ An’ did old Bloody Bones done tol’ you dey ain’ 
no ghosts ? ” say Zack Badget. 

“ Yas,” say liT black Mose, “ he done tell me per- 
zactly dat.” 

“ Well, if he tol’ you dey ain’ no ghosts,” say Zack 
Badget, “ I got to ’low dey ain’t no ghosts, ’ca’se he 
ain’t gwine tell no lie erbout it. I know dat Bloody 
Bones ghost sence I was a piccaninny, an’ I done met 
up wif him a powerful lot o’ times, an’ he ain’t gwine 
tell no lie erbout it. Ef dat perticklar ghost say dey 
ain’t no ghosts, dey ain’t no ghosts.” 

So yever’body say: 

“ Das right ; dey ain’t no ghosts.” 

An’ dat mek li’l black Mose feel mighty good, ’ca’se 
he ain’ lek ghostes. He reckon he gwine be a heap mo’ 
comfortable in he mind sence he know dey ain’t no 
ghosts, an’ he reckon he ain’ gwine be skeered of mif- 
fin’ never no more. He ain’t gwine min’ de dark, an’ 
he ain’t gwine min’ de rain-doves whut go, “ Ooo-oo- 
o-o-o ! ” an’ he ain’ gwine min’ de owls whut go, 
“ Who-who-o-o-o !” an’ he ain’ gwine min’ de wind 
whut go, “ You-yow-o-o-o ! ” nor nuffin, nohow. He 
gwine be brave as a lion, sence he know fo’ sure dey 
ain’ no ghosts. So prisintly he ma say: 

“ Well, time fo’ a li’l black boy whut he name is 
Mose to be gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed.” 

An’ li’l black Mose he ’low he gwine wait a bit. 
216 


DEY AIN’T NO GHOSTS 


He ’low he gwine jes wait a li’l bit. He ’low he gwine 
be no trouble at all ef he jes been let wait twell he ma 
she gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed, too. So he 
ma she say : 

“ Git erlong wid yo’ ! Whut you skeered ob whin 
dey ain’t no ghosts ? ” 

An’ li’l black Mose he scrooge, an’ he twist, an’ he 
pucker up he mouf, an’ he rub he eyes, an’ prisintly he 
say right low : 

“ I ain’t skeered ob ghosts whut am, ’ca’se dey ain’t 
no ghosts.” 

“ Den what am yo’ skeered ob? ” ask he ma. 

“ Nuffin’,” say de li’l black boy whut he name is 
Mose; “ but I jes feel kinder oneasy ’bout de ghosts 
whut ain’t.” 

Jes lak white folks! Jes lak white folks! 



X.—The Night Operator 1 . 

By Frank L. Packard 

ODDLES, in the beginning, wasn’t exactly 



a railroad man — for several reasons. First 


he wasn’t a man at all; second, he wasn’t, 


strictly speaking, on the company’s pay roll; third, 
which is apparently irrelevant, everybody said he was 
a bad one ; and fourth — because Hawkeye nicknamed 
him Toddles. 

Toddles had another name — Christopher Hyslop 
Hoogan — but Big Cloud never lay awake at nights 
losing any sleep over that. On the first run that 
Christopher Hyslop Hoogan ever made, Hawkeye 
looked him over for a minute, said, “ Toddles,” short- 
like — and, shortlike, that settled the matter so far as 
the Hill Division was concerned. His name was Tod- 
dles. 

Piecemeal, Toddles wouldn’t convey anything to you 

1 One of a number of stories from book bearing same title, 
The Night Operator. Copyright, 19T9, by George H. Doran Com- 
pany. Reprinted by special permission of publisher and author. 


2l8 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 

to speak of. You’d have to see Toddles coming down 
the aisle of a car to get him at all — and then the 
chances are you’d turn around after he’d gone by and 
stare at him, and it would be even money that you’d 
call him back and fish for a dime to buy something by 
way of excuse. Toddles got a good deal of business 
that way. Toddles had a uniform and a regular run 
all right, but he wasn’t what he passionately longed to 
be — a legitimate, dyed-in-the-wool railroader. His 
pay check, plus commissions, came from the News 
Company down East that had the railroad concession. 
Toddles was a newsboy. In his blue uniform and 
silver buttons, Toddles used to stack up about the 
height of the back of the car seats as he hawked his 
wares along the aisles ; and the only thing that was big 
about him was his head, which looked as though it had 
got a whopping big lead on his body — and didn’t in- 
tend to let the body cut the lead down any. This 
meant a big cap, and, as Toddles used to tilt the vizor 
forward, the tip of his nose, bar his mouth which was 
generous, was about all one got of his face. Cap, but- 
tons, magazines and peanuts, that was Toddles — all 
except his voice. Toddles had a voice that would make 
you jump if you were nervous the minute he opened 
the car door, and if you weren’t nervous you would be 
before he had reached the other end of the aisle — it 
began low down somewhere on high G and went 
through you shrill as an east wind, and ended like the 
shriek of a brake-shoe with everything the Westing- 
219 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 

house equipment had to offer cutting loose on a quick 
stop. 

Hawkeye? That was what Toddles called his 
beady-eyed conductor in retaliation. Hawkeye used 
to nag Toddles every chance he got, and, being Tod- 
dles’ conductor, Hawkeye got a good many chances. 
In a word, Hawkeye, carrying the punch on the local 
passenger, that happened to be the run Toddles was 
given when the News Company sent him out from the 
East, used to think he got a good deal of fun out of 
Toddles — only his idea of fun and Toddles’ idea of 
fun were as divergent as the poles, that was all. 

Toddles, however, wasn’t anybody’s fool, not by sev- 
eral degrees — not even Hawkeye’s. Toddles hated 
Hawkeye like poison; and his hate, apart from daily 
annoyances, was deep-seated. It was Hawkeye who 
had dubbed him “ Toddles.” And Toddles repudiated 
the name with his heart, his soul — and his fists. 

Toddles wasn’t anybody’s fool, whatever the di- 
vision thought, and he was right down to the basic 
root of things from the start. Coupled with the 
stunted growth that nature in a miserly mood had doled 
out to him, none knew better than himself that the name 
of “ Toddles,” keeping that nature stuff patently be- 
fore everybody’s eyes, damned him in his aspira- 
tions for a bona fide railroad career. Other boys got 
a job and got their feet on the ladder as call-boys, or 
in the roundhouse; Toddles got — a grin. Toddles 
pestered everybody for a job. He pestered Carleton, 
220 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


the super. He pestered Tommy Regan, the master 
mechanic. Every time that he saw anybody in au- 
thority Toddles spoke up for a job, he was in deadly 
earnest — and got a grin. Toddles with a basket of 
unripe fruit and stale chocolates and his “ best-seller ” 
voice was one thing; but Toddles as anything else was 
just — Toddles. 

Toddles repudiated the name, and did it forcefully. 
Not that he couldn’t take his share of a bit of guying, 
but because he felt that he was face to face with a vital 
factor in the career he longed for — so he fought. 
And if nature had been niggardly in one respect, she 
had been generous in others ; Toddles, for all his size, 
possessed the heart of a lion and the strength of a 
young ox, and he used both, with black and bloody 
effect, on the eyes and noses of the call-boys and 
younger element who called him Toddles. He fought 
it all along the line — at the drop of the hat — at a 
whisper of “ Toddles.” There wasn’t a day went by 
that Toddles wasn’t in a row; and the women, the 
mothers of the defeated warriors whose eyes were 
puffed and whose noses trickled crimson, denounced 
him in virulent language over their washtubs and the 
back fences of Big Cloud. You see, they didn’t under- 
stand him, so they called him a “ bad one,” and, being 
from the East and not one of themselves, “a New 
York gutter snipe.” 

But, for all that, the name stuck. Up and down 
through the Rockies it was — Toddles. Toddles, with 
221 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


the idea of getting a lay-over on a siding, even went to 
the extent of signing himself in full — Christopher 
Hyslop Hoogan — every time his signature was in or- 
der; but the official documents in which he was con- 
cerned, being of a private nature between himself and 
the News Company, did not, in the very nature of 
things, have much effect on the Hill Division. Cer- 
tainly the big fellows never knew he had any name but 
Toddles — and cared less. But they knew him as 
Toddles, all right! All of them did, every last one 
of them! Toddles was everlastingly and eternally 
bothering them for a job. Any kind of a job, no mat- 
ter what, just so it was real railroading, and so a fellow 
could line up with everybody else when the pay car 
came along, and look forward to being something some 
day. 

Toddles, with time, of course, grew older, up to 
about seventeen or so, but he didn’t grow any bigger — 
not enough to make it noticeable! Even Toddles’ 
voice wouldn’t break — it was his young heart that 
did all the breaking there was done. Not that he ever 
showed it. No one ever saw a tear in the boy’s eyes. 
It was clenched fists for Toddles, clenched fists and 
passionate attack. And therein, while Toddles had 
grasped the basic truth that his nickname militated 
against his ambitions, he erred in another direction that 
was equally fundamental, if not more so. 

And here, it was Bob Donkin, the night dispatcher, 
as white a man as his record after years of train- 
222 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


handling was white, a railroad man from the ground 
up if there ever was one, and one of the best, who set 
Toddles — but we’ll come to that presently. We’ve 
got our “ clearance ” now, and we’re off with “ rights ” 
through. 

No. 83, Hawkeye’s train — and Toddles’ — sched- 
uled Big Cloud on the eastbound run at 9.05 ; and, on 
the night the story opens, they were about an hour 
away from the little mountain town that was the divi- 
sional point, as Toddles, his basket of edibles in the 
crook of his arm, halted in the forward end of the 
second-class smoker to examine again the fistful of 
change t-hat he dug out of his pants pocket with his 
free hand. 

Toddles was in an unusually bad humor, and he 
scowled. With exceeding deftness he separated one 
of the coins from the others, using his fingers like the 
teeth of a rake, and dropped the rest back jingling into 
his pocket. The coin that remained he put into his 
mouth, and bit on it — hard. His scowl deepened. 
Somebody had presented Toddles with a lead charter. 

It wasn’t so much the quarter, though Toddles’ sal- 
ary wasn’t so big as some people’s who would have felt 
worse over it, it was his amour propre that was 
touched — deeply. It wasn’t often that any one could 
put so bald a thing as lead money across on Toddles. 
Toddles’ mind harked back along the aisles of the cars 
behind him. He had only made two sales that round, 
and he had changed a quarter each time — for the 
223 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


pretty girl with the big picture hat, who had giggled 
at him when she bought a package of chewing gum; 
and the man with the three-carat diamond tie-pin in 
the parlor car, a little more than on the edge of inebri- 
ety, who had got on at the last stop, and who had 
bought a cigar from him. 

Toddles thought it over for a bit; decided he 
wouldn’t have a fuss with a girl anyway, balked at a 
parlor car fracas with a drunk, dropped the coin back 
into his pocket, and went on into the combination bag- 
gage and express car. Here, just inside the door, was 
Toddles’, or, rather, the News Company’s chest. Tod- 
dles lifted the lid; and then his eyes shifted slowly and 
traveled up the car. Things were certainly going 
badly with Toddles that night. 

There were four men in the car : Bob Donkin, com- 
ing back from a holiday trip somewhere up the line; 
MacNicoll, the baggage-master ; Nulty, the express 
messenger — and Hawkeye. Toddles’ inventory of 
the contents of the chest had been hurried — but inti- 
mate. A small bunch of six bananas was gone, and 
Hawkeye was munching them unconcernedly. It 
wasn’t the first time the big, hulking, six-foot con- 
ductor had pilfered the boy’s chest, not by many — and 
never paid for the pilfering. That was Hawkeye’s 
idea of a joke. 

Hawkeye was talking to Nulty, elaborately simulat- 
ing ignorance of Toddles’ presence — and he was talk- 
ing about Toddles. 


224 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


“ Sure/’ said Hawkeye, his mouth full of banana, 
“ he’ll be a great railroad man some day ! He’s the 
stuff they’re made of! You can see it sticking out all 
over him ! He’s only selling peanuts now till he grows 
up and ” 

Toddles put down his basket and planted himself 
before the conductor. 

“ You pay for those bananas,” said Toddles in a low 
voice — which was high. 

“ When’ll he grow up ? ” continued Hawkeye, peel- 
ing more fruit. “ I don’t know — you’ve got me. 
The first time I saw him two years ago, I’m hanged if 
he wasn’t bigger than he is now — guess he grows 
backwards. Have a banana ? ” He offered one to 
Nulty, who refused it. 

“You pay for those bananas, you big stiff!” 
squealed Toddles belligerently. 

Hawkeye turned his head slowly and turned his lit- 
tle beady, black eyes on Toddles, then he turned with 
a wink to the others, and for the first time in two years 
offered payment. He fished into his pocket and 
handed Toddles a twenty-dollar bill — there always 
was a mean streak in Hawkeye, more or less of a bully, 
none too well liked, and whose name on the pay roll, 
by the way, was Reynolds. 

“ Take fifteen cents out of that,” he said, with no 
idea that the boy could change the bill. 

For a moment Toddles glared at the yellow-back, 
then a thrill of unholy glee came to Toddles. He 
225 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


could just about make it, business all around had been 
pretty good that day, particularly on the run west in 
the morning. 

Hawkeye went on with the exposition of his idea of 
humor at Toddles’ expense; and Toddles went back to 
his chest and his reserve funds. Toddles counted out 
eighteen dollars in bills, made a neat pile of four quar- 
ters — the lead one on the bottom — another neat pile 
of the odd change, and returned to Hawkeye. The 
lead quarter wouldn’t go very far toward liquidating 
Hawkeye’s long-standing indebtedness — but it would 
help some. 

Queer, isn’t it — the way things happen? Think of 
a man’s whole life, aspirations, hopes, ambitions, every- 
thing, pivoting on — a lead quarter ! But then they 
say that opportunity knocks once at the door of every 
man; and, if that be true, let it be remarked in passing 
that Toddles wasn’t deaf! 

Hawkeye, making Toddles a target for a parting 
gibe, took up his lantern and started through the train 
to pick up the fares from the last stop. In due course 
he halted before the inebriated one with the glitter- 
ing tie-pin in the smoking compartment of the parlor 
car. 

“ Ticket, please,” said Hawkeye. 

“ Too busy to buysh ticket,” the man informed him, 
with heavy confidence. “ Whash fare Loon Dam to 
Big Cloud?” 

“ One-fifty,” said Hawkeye curtly. 

226 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


The man produced a roll of bills, and from the roll 
extracted a two-dollar note. 

Hawkeye handed him back two quarters, and started 
to punch a cash-fare slip. He looked up to find the 
man holding out one of the quarters insistently, if 
somewhat unsteadily. 

“What’s the matter ?” demanded Hawkeye 
brusquely. 

“ Bad,” said the man. 

A drummer grinned; and an elderly gentleman, 
from his magazine, looked up inquiringly over his spec- 
tacles. 

“ Bad ! ” Hawkeye brought his elbow sharply around 
to focus his lamp on the coin ; then he leaned over and 
rang it on the window sill — only it wouldn’t ring. It 
was indubitably bad. Hawkeye, however, was dealing 
with a drunk — and Hawkeye always did have a mean 
streak in him. 

“ It’s perfectly good,” he asserted gruffly. 

The man rolled an eye at the conductor that mingled 
a sudden shrewdness and anger, and appealed to his 
fellow travelers. The verdict was against Hawkeye, 
and Hawkeye ungraciously pocketed the lead piece and 
handed over another quarter. 

“ Shay,” observed the inebriated one insolently, 
“ shay, conductor, I don’t like you. You thought I 
was — hie ! — s’drunk I wouldn’t know — eh ? Thash 
where you fooled yerself ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” Hawkeye bridled virtuously 
227 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


for the benefit of the drummer and the old gentleman 
with the spectacles. 

And then the other began to laugh immoderately. 

“ Same ol’ quarter,” said he. “ Same — hie! — ol’ 
quarter back again. Great system — peanut boy — 
conductor — hie! Pass it off on one— -other passes 
it off on some one else. Just passed it off on — hie! 

— peanut boy for a joke. Goin’ to give him a dollar 
when he comes back.” 

“ Oh, you did, did you ! ” snapped Hawkeye omi- 
nously. “ And you mean to insinuate that I deliber- 
ately tried to ” 

“ Sure! ” declared the man heartily. 

“ You’re a liar!” announced Hawkeye, spluttering 
mad. “ And what’s more, since it came from you, 
you’ll take it back ! ” He dug into his pocket for the 
ubiquitous lead piece. 

“ Not — hie! — on your life!” said the man ear- 
nestly. “ You hang on to it, old top. I didn’t pass it 
off on you/' 

“ Haw ! ” exploded the drummer suddenly. “ Haw 

— haw, haw ! ” 

And the elderly gentleman smiled. 

Hawkeye’s face went red, and then purple. 

“ Go ’way!” said the man petulantly. “ I don’t like 
you. Go ’way ! Go an’ tell peanuts I — hie ! — got a 
dollar for him.” 

And Hawkeye went — but Toddles never got the 
dollar. Hawkeye went out of the smoking compart- 
228 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


ment of the parlor car with the lead quarter in his 
pocket — because he couldn’t do anything else — which 
didn’t soothe his feelings any — and he went out mad 
enough to bite himself. The drummer’s guffaw fol- 
lowed him, and he thought he even caught a chuckle 
from the elderly party with the magazine and spec- 
tacles. 

Hawkeye was mad; and he was quite well aware, 
painfully well aware that he had looked like a fool, 
which is about one of the meanest feelings there is to 
feel; and, as he made his way forward through the 
train, he grew madder still. That change was the 
change from his twenty-dollar bill. He had not 
needed to be told that the lead quarter had come from 
Toddles. The only question at all in doubt was 
whether or not Toddles had put the counterfeit coin 
over on him knowingly and with malice aforethought. 
Hawkeye, however, had an intuition deep down inside 
of him that there wasn’t any doubt even about that, 
and as he opened the door of the baggage car his in- 
tuition was vindicated. There was a grin on the faces 
of Nulty, MacNicoll and Bob Donkin that disappeared 
with suspicious celerity at sight of him as he came 
through the door. 

There was no hesitation then on Hawkeye’s part. 
Toddles, equipped for another excursion through the 
train with a stack of magazines and books that almost 
hid him, received a sudden and vicious clout on the 
side of the ear. 


229 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ You’d try your tricks on me, would you?” 
Hawkeye snarled. “ Lead quarters — eh? ” Another 
clout. “ I’ll teach you, you blasted little runt ! ” 

And with the clouts, the stack of carefully balanced 
periodicals went flying over the floor; and with the 
clouts, the nagging, and the hectoring, and the bully- 
ing, that had rankled for close on two years in Tod- 
dles’ turbulent soul, rose in a sudden all-possessing 
sweep of fury. Toddles was a fighter — with the 
heart of a fighter. And Toddles’ cause was just. He 
couldn’t reach the conductor’s face — so he went for 
Hawkeye’s legs. And the screams of rage from his 
high-pitched voice, as he shot himself forward, sounded 
like a cageful of Australian cockatoos on the rampage. 

Toddles was small, pitifully small for his age; but 
he wasn’t an infant in arms — not for a minute. And 
in action Toddles was as near to a wild cat as anything 
else that comes handy by way of illustration. Two 
legs and one arm he twined and twisted around Hawk- 
eye’s legs ; and the other arm, with a hard and knotty 
fist on the end of it, caught the conductor a wicked jab 
in the region of the bottom button of the vest. The 
brass button peeled the skin off Toddles’ knuckles, but 
the jab doubled the conductor forward, and coincident 
with Hawkeye’s winded grunt, the lantern in his hand 
sailed ceilingwards, crashed into the center lamps in 
the roof of the car, and down in a shower of tinkling 
glass, dripping oil and burning wicks, came the wreck- 
age to the floor. 


230 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


There was a yell from Nulty; but Toddles hung on 
like grim death. Hawkeye was bawling fluent pro- 
fanity and seeing red. Toddles heard one and sensed 
the other — and he clung grimly on. He was all dou- 
bled up around Hawkeye’s knees, and in that position 
Hawkeye couldn’t get at him very well; and, besides, 
Toddles had his own plan of battle. He was waiting 
for an extra heavy lurch of the car. 

It came. Toddles’ muscles strained legs and arms 
and back in concert, and for an instant across the car 
they tottered, Hawkeye staggering in a desperate at- 
tempt to maintain his equilibrium — and then down — 
speaking generally, on a heterogeneous pile of express 
parcels; concretely, with an eloquent squnch, on a 
crate of eggs, thirty dozen of them, at forty cents a 
dozen. 

Toddles, over his rage, experienced a sickening sense 
of disaster, but still he clung; he didn’t dare let go. 
Hawkeye’s fists, both in an effort to recover himself 
and in an endeavor to reach Toddles, were going like 
a windmill; and Hawkeye’s threats were something 
terrifying to listen to. And now they rolled over, and 
Toddles was underneath; and then they rolled over 
again; and then a hand locked on Toddles’ collar, and 
he was yanked, terrier-fashion, to his feet. 

His face white and determined, his fists doubled, 
Toddles waited for Hawkeye to get up — the word 
“ run ” wasn’t in Toddles’ vocabulary. He hadn’t 
long to wait. 


231 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Hawkeye lunged up, draped in the broken crate — 
a sight. The road always prided itself on the natty 
uniforms of its train crews, but Hawkeye wasn’t 
dressed in uniform then — mostly egg yolks. He 
made a dash for Toddles, but he never reached the boy. 
Bob Donkin was between them. 

“ Cut it out ! ” said Donkin coldly, as he pushed 
Toddles behind him. “ You asked for it, Reynolds, 
and you got it. Now cut it out! ” 

And Hawkeye “cut it out.” It was pretty gen- 
erally understood that Bob Donkin never talked much 
for show, and Bob Donkin was bigger than Toddles, a 
whole lot bigger, as big as Hawkeye himself. Hawk- 
eye “ cut it out.” 

Funny, the egg part of it? Well, perhaps. But 
the fire wasn’t. True, they got it out with the help of 
the hand extinguishers before it did any serious dam- 
age, for Nulty had gone at it on the jump; but while 
it lasted the burning oil on the car floor looked dan- 
gerous. Anyway, it was bad enough so that they 
couldn’t hide it when they got into Big Cloud — and 
Hawkeye and Toddles went on the carpet for it the 
next morning in the super’s office. 

Carleton, “ Royal ” Carleton, reached for a match, 
and, to keep his lips straight, clamped them firmly on 
the amber mouthpiece of his brier, and stumpy, big- 
paunched Tommy Regan, the master mechanic, who 
was sitting in a chair by the window, reached hur- 
riedly into his back pocket for his chewing and looked 
232 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


out of the window to hide a grin, as the two came in 
and ranged themselves in front of the super’s desk — 
Hawkeye, six feet and a hundred and ninety pounds, 
with Toddles trailing him, mostly cap and buttons and 
no weight at all. 

Carleton didn’t ask many questions — he’d asked 
them before — of Bob Donkin — and the dispatcher 
hadn’t gone out of his way to invest the conductor with 
any glorified halo. Carleton, always a strict discipli- 
narian, said what he had to say and said it quietly; 
but he meant to let the conductor have the worst of it, 
and he did — in a way that was all Carleton’s own. 
Two years’ picking on a youngster didn’t appeal to 
Carleton, no matter who the youngster was. Before 
he was half through he had the big conductor squirm- 
ing. Hawkeye was looking for something else — be- 
sides a galling and matter-of-fact impartiality that ac- 
cepted himself and Toddles as being on exactly the 
same plane and level. 

“ There’s a case of eggs,” said Carleton at the end. 
“ You can divide up the damage between you. And 
I’m going to change your runs, unless you’ve got some 
good reason to give me why I shouldn’t ? ” 

He waited for an answer. 

Hawkeye, towering, sullen, his eyes resting bitterly 
on Regan, having caught the master mechanic’s grin, 
said nothing; Toddles, whose head barely showed over 
the top of Carleton’s desk, and the whole of him sizing 
up about big enough to go into the conductor’s pocket, 
233 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


was equally silent — Toddles was thinking of some- 
thing else. 

“ Very good,” said Carleton suavely, as he surveyed 
the ridiculous incongruity before him. “ I’ll change 
your runs, then. I can’t have you two men brawling 
and prize-fighting every trip.” 

There was a sudden sound from the window, as 
though Regan had got some of his blackstrap juice 
down the wrong way. 

Hawkeye’s face went black as thunder. 

Carleton’s face was like a sphinx. 

“ That’ll do, then,” he said. “ You can go, both of 
you.” 

Hawkeye stamped out of the room and down the 
stairs. But Toddles stayed. 

“ Please, Mr. Carleton, won’t you give me a job 
on ” Toddles stopped. 

So had Regan’s chuckle. Toddles, the irrepressible, 
was at it again — and Toddles after a job, any kind 
of a job, was something that Regan’s experience had 
taught him to fly from without standing on the order 
of his flight. Regan hurried from the room. 

Toddles watched him go — kind of specula- 
tively, kind of reproachfully. Then he turned to Car- 
leton. 

“ Please give me a job, Mr. Carleton,” he pleaded. 
“ Give me a job, won’t you? ” 

It was only yesterday on the platform that Toddles 
had waylaid the super with the same demand — and 
234 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


about every day before that as far back as Carleton 
could remember. It was hopelessly chronic. Any- 
thing convincing or appealing about it had gone long 
ago — Toddles said it parrot-fashion now. Carleton 
took refuge in severity. 

“ See here, young man,” he said grimly, “ you were 
brought into this office for a reprimand and not to 
apply for a job! You can thank your stars and Bob 
Donkin you haven’t lost the one you’ve got. Now, get 
out!” 

“ I’d make good if you gave me one,” said Toddles 
earnestly. “ Honest, I would, Mr. Carleton.” 

“ Get out ! ” said the super, not altogether unkindly. 
“ I’m busy.” 

Toddles swallowed a lump in his throat — but not 
until after his head was turned and he’d started for the 
door so the super couldn’t see it. Toddles swallowed 
the lump — and got out. He hadn’t expected anything 
else, of course. The refusals were just as chronic as 
the demands. But that didn’t make each new one any 
easier for Toddles. It made it worse. 

Toddles’ heart was heavy as he stepped out into the 
hall, and the iron was in his soul. He was seventeen 
now, and it looked as though he never would get a 
chance — except to be a newsboy all his life. Toddles 
swallowed another lump. He loved railroading; it 
was his one ambition, his one desire. If he could ever 
get a chance, he’d show them! He’d show them that 
he wasn’t a joke, just because he was small! 

235 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Toddles turned at the head of the stairs to go down, 
when somebody called his name. 

“ Here — Toddles ! Come here ! ” 

Toddles looked over his shoulder, hesitated, then 
marched in through the open door of the dispatchers’ 
room. Bob Donkin was alone there. 

“ What’s your name — Toddles? ” inquired Donkin, 
as Toddles halted before the dispatcher’s table. 

Toddles froze instantly — hard. His fists doubled; 
there was a smile on Donkin’s face. Then his fists 
slowly uncurled ; the smile on Donkin’s face had 
broadened, but there wasn’t any malice in the smile. 

“ Christopher Hyslop Hoogan,” said Toddles, un- 
bending. 

Donkin put his hand quickly to his mouth — and 
coughed. 

“ Um-m ! ” said he pleasantly. “ Super hard on you 
this morning — Hoogan? ” 

And with the words Toddles’ heart went out to the 
big dispatcher : “ Hoogan ” — and a man-to-man tone. 

“ No,” said Toddles cordially. “ Say, I thought you 
were on the night trick.” 

“Double-shift — short-handed,” replied Donkin. 
“ Come from New York, don’t you? ” 

“ Yes,” said Toddles. 

“Mother and father down there still?” 

It came quick and unexpected, and Toddles stared 
for a moment. Then he walked over to the window. 

“ I haven’t got any,” he said. 

236 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


There wasn’t any sound for an instant, save the 
clicking of the instruments; then Donkin spoke again 
— a little gruffly : 

“ When are you going to quit making a fool of 
yourself? ” 

Toodles swung from the window, hurt. Donkin, 
after all, was like all the rest of them. 

“ Well? ” prompted the dispatcher. 

“You go to blazes!” said Toddles bitterly, and 
started for the door. 

Donkin halted him. 

“ You’re only fooling yourself, Hoogan,” he said 
coolly. “If you wanted what you call a real railroad 
job as much as you pretend you do, you’d get one.” 

“ Eh?” demanded Toddles defiantly; and went back 
to the table. 

“ A fellow,” said Donkin, putting a little sting into 
his words, “ never got anywhere by going around with 
a chip on his shoulder fighting everybody because they 
called him Toddles, and making a nuisance of himself 
with the Big Fellows until they got sick of the sight of 
him.” 

It was a pretty stiff arraignment. Toddles choked 
over it, and the angry blood flushed to his cheeks. 

“ That’s all right for you ! ” he spluttered out hotly. 
“ You don’t look too small for the train crews or the 
roundhouse, and they don’t call you Toddles so’s no- 
body’ll forget it. What’d you do? ” 

“ I’ll tell you what I’d do,” said Donkin quietly. 
237 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ I’d make everybody on the division wish their own 
name was Toddles before I was through with them, 
and I’d make a job for myself.” 

Toddles blinked helplessly. 

“ Getting right down to a cash fare,” continued Don- 
kin, after a moment, as Toddles did not speak, “ they’re 
not so far wrong, either, about you sizing up pretty 
small for the train crews or the roundhouse, are they? ” 

“ No-o,” admitted Toddles reluctantly; “ but ” 

“ Then why not something where there’s no handi- 
cap hanging over you ? ” suggested the dispatcher — 
and his hand reached out and touched the sender. 
“ The key, for instance? ” 

“ But I don’t know anything about it,” said Toddles, 
still helplessly. 

“ That’s just it,” returned Donkin smoothly. “ You 
never tried to learn.” 

Toddles’ eyes widened, and into Toddles’ heart 
leaped a sudden joy. A new world seemed to open out 
before him in which aspirations, ambitions, longings all 
were a reality. A key! That was real railroading, 
the top-notch of railroading, too. First an operator, 
and then a dispatcher, and — and — and then his face 
fell, and the vision faded. 

“ How’d I get a chance to learn ? ” he said miser- 
ably. “ Who’d teach me?” 

The smile was back on Donkin’s face as he pushed 
his chair from the table, stood up, and held out his 
hand — man-to-man fashion. 

238 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


“ I will,” he said. “ I liked your grit last night, 
Hoogan. And if you want to be a railroad man, I’ll 
make you one — before I’m through. I’ve some old 
instruments you can have to practice with, and I’ve 
nothing to do in my spare time. What do you say ? ” 

Toddles didn’t say anything. For the first time 
since Toddles’ advent to the Hill Division, there were 
tears in Toddles’ eyes for some one else to see. 

Donkin laughed. 

“ All right, old man, you’re on. See that you don’t 
throw me down. And keep your mouth shut; you’ll 
need all your wind. It’s work that counts, and noth- 
ing else. Now chase yourself ! I’ll dig up the things 
you’ll need, and you can drop in here and get them 
when you come off your run to-night.” 

Spare time! Bob Donkin didn’t have any spare 
time those days ! But that was Donkin’s way. 
Spence sick, and two men handling the dispatching 
where three had handled it before, didn’t leave Bob 
Donkin much spare time — not much. But a boost for 
the kid was worth a sacrifice. Donkin went at it as 
earnestly as Toddles did — and Toddles was in deadly 
earnest. 

When Toddles left the dispatcher’s office that morn- 
ing with Donkin’s promise to teach him the key, Tod- 
dles had a hazy idea that Donkin had wings concealed 
somewhere under his coat and was an angel in dis- 
guise; and at the end of two weeks he was sure of it. 
But at the end of a month Bob Donkin was a god! 
239 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Throw Bob Donkin down! Toddles would have sold 
his soul for the dispatcher. 

It wasn’t easy, though; and Bob Donkin wasn’t an 
easy-going taskmaster, not by long odds. Donkin had 
a tongue, and on occasions could use it. Short and 
quick in his explanations, he expected his pupil to get 
it short and quick ; either that, or Donkin’s opinion of 
him. But Toddles stuck. He’d have crawled on his 
knees for Donkin anywhere, and he worked like a 
major — not only for his own advancement, but for 
what he came to prize quite as much, if not more, 
Donkin’s approval. 

Toddles, mindful of Donkin’s words, didn’t fight 
so much as the days went by, though he found it dif- 
ficult to swear off all at once ; and on his runs he studied 
his Morse code, and he had the “ calls ” of every station 
on the division off by heart right from the start. Tod- 
dles mastered the " sending ” by leaps and bounds ; but 
the “ taking ” came slower, as it does for everybody — 
but even at that, at the end of six weeks, if it wasn’t 
thrown at him too fast and hard, Toddles could get it 
after a fashion. 

Take it all around, Toddles felt like whistling most 
of the time ; and, pleased with his own progress, looked 
forward to starting in presently as a full-fledged op- 
erator. 

He mentioned the matter to Bob Donkin — once. 
Donkin picked his words and spoke fervently. Tod- 
dles never brought the subject up again. 

240 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


And so things went on. Late summer turned to 
early fall, and early fall to still sharper weather, until 
there came the night that the operator at Blind River 
muddled his orders and gave No. 73, the westbound 
fast freight, her clearance against the second section 
of the eastbound Limited that doomed them to meet 
somewhere head-on in the Glacier Canon ; the night that 
Toddles — but there’s just a word or two that comes 
before. 

When it was all over, it was up to Sam Beale, the 
Blind River operator, straight enough. Beale blun- 
dered. That’s all there was to it ; that covers it all — 
he blundered. It would have finished Beale’s railroad 
career forever and a day — only Beale played the man, 
and the instant he realized what he had done, even 
while the tail lights of the freight were disappearing 
down the track and he couldn’t stop her, he was stam- 
mering the tale of his mistake over the wire, the sweat 
beads dripping from his wrist, his face gray with hor- 
ror, to Bob Donkin under the green-shaded lamp in 
the dispatchers’ room at Big Cloud, miles away. 

Donkin got the miserable story over the chattering 
wire — got it before it was half told — cut Beale out 
and began to pound the Gap call. And as though it 
were before him in reality, that stretch of track, fifteen 
miles of it, from Blind River to the Gap, unfolded it- 
self like a grisly panorama before his mind. There 
wasn’t a half mile of tangent at a single stretch in the 
whole of it. It swung like the writhings of a snake, 
241 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


through cuts and tunnels, hugging the canon walls, 
twisting this way and that. Anywhere else there 
might be a chance, one in a thousand even, that they 
would see each other’s headlights in time — here it was 
disaster quick and absolute. 

Donkin’s lips were set in a thin, straight line. The 
Gap answered him; and the answer was like the knell 
of doom. He had not expected anything else ; he had 
only hoped against hope. The second section of the 
Limited had pulled out of the Gap, eastbound, two min- 
utes before. The two trains were in the open against 
each other’s orders. 

In the next room, Carleton and Regan, over their 
pipes, were at their nightly game of pedro. Donkin 
called them — and his voice sounded strange to him- 
self. Chairs scraped and crashed to the floor, and an 
instant later the super and the master mechanic were 
in the room. 

“ What’s wrong, Bob ? ” Carleton flung the words 
from him in a single breath. 

Donkin told them. But his fingers were on the key 
again as he talked. There was still one chance, worse 
than the thousand-to-one shot ; but it was the only one. 
Between the Gap and Blind River, eight miles from the 
Gap, seven miles from Blind River, was Cassil’s Sid- 
ing. But there was no night man at Cassil’s, and the 
little town lay a mile from the station. It was ten 
o’clock — Donkin’s watch lay face up on the table 
before him — the day man at Cassil’s went off at seven 
242 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


— the chance was that the day man might have come 
back to the station for something or other! 

Not much of a chance? No — not much! It was 
a possibility, that was all; and Donkin’s fingers work- 
ed — the seventeen, the life and death — calling, call- 
ing on the night trick to the day man at Cassil’s Siding. 

Carleton came and stood at Donkin’s elbow, and 
Regan stood at the other; and there was silence now, 
save only for the key that, under Donkin’s fingers, 
seemed to echo its stammering appeal about the room 
like the sobbing of a human soul. 

“ CS — CS — CS,” Donkin called ; and then, “ the 
seventeen,” and then, “ hold second Number Two.” 
And then the same thing over and over again. 

And there was no answer. 

It had turned cold that night and there was a fire in 
the little heater. Donkin had opened the draft a little 
while before, and the sheet-iron sides now began to pur 
red-hot. Nobody noticed it. Regan’s kindly, good- 
humored face had the stamp of horror in it, and he 
pulled at his scraggly brown mustache, his eyes seem- 
ingly fascinated by Donkin’s fingers. Everybody’s 
eyes, the three of them, were on Donkin’s fingers and 
the key. Carleton was like a man of stone, motion- 
less, his face set harder than face was ever carved 
in marble. 

It grew hot in the room ; but Donkin’s fingers were 
like ice on the key, and, strong man though he was, 
he faltered. 


243 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ Oh, my Godl ” he whispered — and never a 
prayer rose more fervently from lips than those three 
broken words. 

Again he called, and again, and again. The min- 
utes slipped away. Still he called — with the life 
and death — the “ seventeen ” — called and called. 
And there was no answer save that echo in the room 
that brought the perspiration streaming down from 
Regan’s face, a harder light into Carleton’s eyes 
and a chill like death into Donkin’s heart. 

Suddenly Donkin pushed back his chair; and his 
fingers, from the key, touched the crystal of his watch. 

“ The second section will have passed Cassil’s now,” 
he said in a curious, unnatural, matter-of-fact tone. 
“ It’ll bring them together about a mile east of there 
— in another minute.” 

And then Carleton spoke — master railroader, 
“ Royal ” Carleton, it was up to him then, all the 
pity of it, the ruin, the disaster, the lives out, all the 
bitterness to cope with as he could. And it was in his 
eyes, all of it. But his voice was quiet. It rang 
quick, peremptory, his voice — but quiet. 

“ Clear the line, Bob,” he said. “Plug in the 
round-house for the wrecker — and tell them to send 
uptown for the crew.” 

Toddles? What did Toddles have to do with this? 
Well, a good deal, in one way and another. We’re 
coming to Toddles now. You see, Toddles, since 
his fracas with Hawkeye, had been put on the Elk 
244 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


River local run that left Big Cloud at 9.45 in the morn- 
ing for the run west, and scheduled Big Cloud again 
on the return trip at 10. 10 in the evening. 

It had turned cold that night, after a day of rain. 
Pretty cold — the thermometer can drop on occasions 
in the late fall in the mountains — and by eight 
o’clock, where there had been rain before, there was 
now a thin sheeting of ice over everything — very 
thin — you know the kind — rails and telegraph 
wires glistening like the decorations on a Christmas 
tree — very pretty — and also very nasty running 
on a mountain grade. Likewise, the rain, in a way 
rain has, had dripped from the car roofs to the plat- 
forms — the local did not boast any closed vestibules 
— and had also been blown upon the car steps with 
the sweep of the wind, and, having frozen, it stayed 
there. Not a very serious matter; annoying, perhaps, 
but not serious, demanding a little extra caution, that 
was all. 

Toddles was in high fettle that night. He had been 
getting on famously of late; even Bob Donkin had ad- 
mitted it. Toddles, with his stack of books and 
magazines, an unusually big one, for a number of the 
new periodicals were out that day, was dreaming rosy 
dreams to himself as he started from the door of the 
first-class smoker to the door of the first-class coach. 
In another hour now he’d be up in the dispatcher’s 
room at Big Cloud for his nightly sitting with Bob 
Donkin. He could see Bob Donkin there now ; and he 
245 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


could hear the big dispatcher growl at him in his bluff 
way : “ Use your head — use your head — Hoogan! ” 
It was always “ Hoogan,” never “ Toddles.” “ Use 
your head ” — Donkin was everlastingly drumming 
that inter him; for the dispatcher used to confront him 
suddenly with imaginary and hair-raising emergen- 
cies, and demand Toddles’ instant solution. Toddles 
realized that Donkin was getting to the heart of things, 
and that some day he, Toddles, would be a great dis- 
patcher — like Donkin. “ Use your head, Hoogan ” 
— that’s the way Donkin talked — “ anybody can learn 
a key, but that doesn’t make a railroad man 

think quick and think right. Use your ” 

Toddles stepped out on the platform — and walked 
on ice. But that wasn’t Toddles’ undoing. The 
trouble with Toddles was that he was walking on air 
at the same time. It was treacherous running, they 
were nosing a curve, and in the cab, Kinneard, at the 
throttle, checked with a little jerk at the “ air.” And 
with the jerk, Toddles slipped; and with the slip, the 
center of gravity of the stack of periodicals shifted, 
and they bulged ominously from the middle. Toddles 
grabbed at them — and his heels went out from under 
him. He ricocheted down the steps, snatched des- 
perately at the handrail, missed it, shot out from the 
train, and, head, heels, arms and body going every 
which way at once, rolled over and over down the em- 
bankment. And, starting from the point of Toddles’ 
departure from the train, the right of way for a hun- 
246 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


dred yards was strewn with “ the latest magazines ” 
and “ new books just out to-day.” 

Toddles lay there, a little, curled, huddled heap, 
motionless in the darkness. The tail lights of the 
local disappeared. No one aboard would miss Tod- 
dles until they got into Big Cloud — and found him 
gone. Which is Irish for saying that no one would 
attempt to keep track of a newsboy’s idiosyncrasies 
on a train; it would be asking too much of any train 
crew; and, besides, there was no mention of it in the 
rules. 

It was a long while before Toddles stirred; a very 
long while before consciousness crept slowly back to 
him. Then he moved, tried to get up — and fell back 
with a quick, sharp cry of pain. He lay still, then, for 
a moment. His ankle hurt him frightfully, and his 
back, and his shoulder, too. He put his hand to his 
face where something seemed to be trickling warm 
— and brought it away wet. Toddles, grim little war- 
rior, tried to think. They hadn’t been going very fast 
when he fell off. If they had, he would have been 
killed. As it was, he was hurt, badly hurt, and his 
head swam, nauseating him. 

Where was he? Was he near any help? He’d 
have to get help somewhere, or — or with the cold 
and — and everything he’d probably die out here be- 
fore morning. Toddles shouted out — again and 
again. Perhaps his voice was too weak to carry very 
far; anyway, there was no reply. 

247 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


He looked up at the top of the embankment, clamp- 
ed his teeth, and started to crawl. If he got up there, 
perhaps he could tell where he was. It had taken 
Toddles a matter of seconds to roll down; it took him 
ten minutes of untold agony to get up. Then he dash- 
ed his hand across his eyes where the blood was, and 
cried a little with the surge of relief. East, down the 
track, only a few yards away, the green eye of a switch 
lamp winked at him. 

Where there was a switch lamp there was a siding, 
and where there was a siding there was promise of 
a station. Toddles, with the sudden uplift upon him, 
got to his feet and started along the track — two steps 
— and went down again. He couldn’t walk, the pain 
was more than he could bear — his right ankle, his 
left shoulder, and his back — hopping only made it 
worse — it was easier to crawl. 

And so Toddles crawled. 

It took him a long time even to pass the switch light. 
The pain made him weak, his senses seemed to trail off 
giddily every now and then, and he’d find himself 
lying flat and still beside the track. It was a white, 
drawn face that Toddles lifted up each time he start- 
ed on again — miserably white, except where the 
blood kept trickling from his forehead. 

And then Toddles’ heart, stout as it was, seemed to 
snap. He had reached the station platform, wonder- 
ing vaguely why the little building that loomed ahead 
was dark — and now it came to him in a flash, as he 
248 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


recognized the station. It was Cassil’s Siding — 
and there was no night man at Cassil’s Siding! The 
switch lights were lighted before the day man left, of 
course. Everything swam before Toddles’ eyes. 
There — there was no help here. And yet — yet per- 
haps — desperate hope came again — perhaps there 
might be. The pain was terrible — all over him. 
And — and he’d got so weak now — but it wasn’t far 
to the door. 

Toddles squirmed along the platform, and reached 
the door finally — only to find it shut and fastened. 
And then Toddles fainted on the threshold. 

When Toddles came to himself again, he thought 
at first that he was up in the dispatcher’s room at Big 
Cloud with Bob Donkin pounding away on the bat- 
tered old key they used to practice with — only there 
seemed to be something the matter with the key, and 
it didn’t sound as loud as it usually did — it seemed 
to come from a long way off somehow. And then, 
besides, Bob was working it faster than he had ever 
done before when they were practicing. “ Hold se- 
cond ” — second something — Toddles couldn’t make 
it out. Then the “ seventeen ” — yes, he knew that 
— that was the life and death. Bob was going pretty 
quick, though. Then “ CS — CS — CS ”*■ — Tod- 
dles’ brain fumbled a bit over that — then it came to 
him. CS was the call for Cassil’s Siding. Cassil’s 
Siding! Toddles’ head came up with a jerk. 

A little cry burst from Toddles’ lips — and his 
249 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


brain cleared. He wasn’t at Big Cloud at all — he 
was at Cassil’s Siding — and he was hurt — and that 
was the sounder inside calling, calling frantically for 
Cassil’s Siding — where he was. 

The life and death — the seventeen — it sent a 
thrill through Toddles’ pain-twisted spine. He wrig- 
gled to the window. It, too, was closed, of course, 
but he could hear better there. The sounder was bab- 
bling madly. 

“ Hold second ” 

He missed it again — and as, on top of it, the “ sev- 
enteen ” came pleading, frantic, urgent, he wrung his 
hands. 

“Hold second” — he got it this time — “Number 
Two.” 

Toddles’ first impulse was to smash in the window 
and reach the key. And then, like a dash of cold 
water over him, Donkin’s words seemed to ring in his 
ears : “ Use your head.” 

With the “ seventeen ” it meant a matter of min- 
utes, perhaps even seconds. Why smash the window ? 
Why waste the moment required to do it simply to 
answer the call? The order stood for itself — “ Hold 
second Number Two.” That was the second section 
of the Limited, east-bound. Hold her! How? 
There was nothing — not a thing to stop her with. 

Use your head, said Donkin in a far-away voice 
to Toddles’ wobbling brain. 

Toddles looked up the track — west — where he 
250 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


had come from — to where the switch light twinkled 
green at him — and, with a little sob, he started to 
drag himself back along the platform. If he could 
throw the switch, it would throw the light from green 
to red, and — and the Limited would take the siding. 
But the switch was a long way off. 

Toddles half fell, half bumped from the end of the 
platform to the right of way. He cried to himself 
with low moans as he went along. He had the heart 
of a fighter, and grit to the last tissue; but he needed 
it all now — needed it all to stand the pain and fight 
the weakness that kept swirling over him in flashes. 

On he went, on his hands and knees, slithering from 
tie to tie — * and from one tie to the next was a great 
distance. The life and death, the dispatcher’s call 
— he seemed to hear it yet — throbbing, throbbing on 
the wire. 

On he went, up the track; and the green eye of the 
lamp, winking at him, drew nearer. And then sud- 
denly, clear and mellow through the mountains, caught 
up and echoed far and near, came the notes of a chime 
whistle ringing down the gorge. 

Fear came upon Toddles then, and a great sob shook 
him. That was the Limited coming now! Toddles’ 
fingers dug into the ballast, and he hurried — that is, 
in bitter pain, he tried to crawl a little faster. And as 
he crawled, he kept his eyes strained up the track — 
she wasn’t in sight yet around the curve — not yet, 
anyway. 

251 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Another foot, only another foot, and he would 
reach the siding switch — in time — in plenty of time. 
Again the sob — but now in a burst of relief that, for 
the moment, made him forget his hurts. He was in 
time ! 

He flung himself at the switch lever, tugged upon it 
and then, trembling, every ounce of remaining 
strength seeming to ooze from him, he covered his face 
with his hands. It was locked — padlocked. 

Came a rumble now — a distant roar, growing loud- 
er and louder, reverberating down the canon walls — 
louder and louder — nearer and nearer. “ Hold se- 
cond Number Two. Hold second Number Two ” — 
the “ seventeen,” the life and death, pleading with him 
to hold Number Two. And she was coming now, 
coming — and — and — the switch was locked. The 
deadly nausea racked Toddles again; there was no- 
thing to do now — nothing. He couldn’t stop her — 
couldn’t stop her. He’d — he’d tried — very hard 
— and — and he couldn’t stop her now. He took his 
hands from his face, and stole a glance up the track, 
afraid almost, with the horror that was upon him, to 
look. 

She hadn’t swung the curve yet, but she would 
in a minute — and come pounding down the stretch 
at fifty miles an hour, shoot by him like a rocket to 
where, somewhere ahead, in some form, he did not 
know what, only knew that it was there, death and 
ruin and 


252 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


“ Use your head! ” snapped Donkin’s voice to his 
consciousness. 

Toddles’ eyes were on the light above his head. It 
blinked red at him as he stood on the track facing it ; 
the green rays were shooting up and down the line. 
He couldn’t swing the switch — but the lamp was 
there — and there was the red side to show just by 
turning it. He remembered then that the lamp fitted 
into a socket at the top of the switch stand, and could 
be lifted off — if he could reach it ! 

It wasn’t very high — for an ordinary-sized man - * 
for an ordinary-sized man had to get at it to trim and 
fill it daily — only Toddles wasn’t an ordinary-sized 
man. It was just nine or ten feet above the rails — 
just a standard siding switch. 

Toddles gritted his teeth, and climbed upon the base 
of the switch — and nearly fainted as his ankle swung 
against the rod. A foot above the base was a footrest 
for a man to stand on and reach up for the lamp, and 
Toddles drew himself up and got his foot on it — and 
then at his full height the tips of his fingers only just 
touched the bottom of the lamp. Toddles cried aloud, 
and the tears streamed down his face now. Oh, if 
he weren’t hurt — if he could only shin up another 
foot — but — but it was all he could do to hang there 
where he was. 

What was that ! He turned his head. Up the 
track, sweeping in a great circle as it swung the curve, 
a headlight’s glare cut through the night — and Tod- 
253 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


dies “ shinned ” the foot. He tugged and tore at the 
lamp, tugged and tore at it, loosened it, lifted it from 
its socket, sprawled and wriggled with it to the ground 

— and turned the red side of the lamp against second 
Number Two. 

The quick, short blasts of a whistle answered, then 
the crunch and grind and scream of biting brake-shoes 

— and the big mountain racer, the 1012, pulling the 
second section of the Limited that night, stopped with 
its pilot nosing a diminutive figure in a torn and silver- 
buttoned uniform, whose hair was clotted red, and 
whose face was covered with blood and dirt. 

Masters, the engineer, and Pete Leroy, his fireman, 
swung from the gangways; Kelly, the conductor, came 
running up from the forward coach. 

Kelly shoved his lamp into Toddles’ face — and 
whistled low under his breath. 

“ Toddles!” he gasped; and then, quick as a steel 
trap: “ What’s wrong? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Toddles weakly. “ There’s 

— there’s something wrong. Get into the clear — on 
the siding.” 

“ Something wrong,” repeated Kelly, “ and you 
don’t ” 

But Masters cut the conductor short with a grab at 
the other’s arm that was like the shutting of a vise — 
and then bolted for his engine like a gopher for its 
hole. From down the track came the heavy, grum- 
bling roar of a freight. Everybody flew then, and 
254 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


there was quick work done in the next half minute — 
and none too quickly done — the Limited was no more 
than on the siding when the fast freight rolled her long 
string of flats, boxes and gondolas thundering by. 

And while she passed, Toddles, on the platform, 
stammered out his story to Kelly. 

Kelly didn’t say anything — then. With the ex- 
press messenger and a brakeman carrying Toddles, 
Kelly kicked in the station door, and set his lamp down 
on the operator’s table. 

‘'Hold me up,” whispered Toddles — and, while 
they held him, he made the dispatcher’s call. 

Big Cloud answered him on the instant. Haltingly, 
Toddles reported the second section “ in ” and the 
freight “ out ” — only he did it very slowly, and he 
couldn’t think very much more, for things were going 
black. He got an order for the Limited to run to 
Blind River and told Kelly, and got the “ complete ” 
— and then Big Cloud asked who was on the wire, and 
Toddles answered that in a mechanical sort of a way 
without quite knowing what he was doing — and went 
limp in Kelly’s arms. 

And as Toddles answered, back in Big Cloud, Re- 
gan, the sweat still standing out in great beads on his 
forehead, fierce now in the revulsion of relief, glared 
over Donkin’s left shoulder, as Donkin’s left hand 
scribbled on a pad what was coming over the wire. 

Regan glared fiercely — then he spluttered : 

"Who’s Christopher Hyslop Hoogan — h’m?” 

255 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


Donkin’s lips had a queer smile on them. 

“ Toddles,” he said. 

Regan sat down heavily in his chair. 

“ What?” demanded the super. 

“ Toddles,” said Donkin. “ I’ve been trying to 
drum a little railroading into him — on the key.” 

Regan wiped his face. He looked helplessly from 
Donkin to the super, and then back again at Donkin. 

“ But — but what’s he doing at Cassil’s Siding? 
How’d he get there — h’m? H’m? How’d he get 
there? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Donkin, his fingers rattling 
the Cassil’s Siding call again. “ He doesn’t answer 
any more. We’ll have to wait for the story till they 
make Blind River, I guess.” 

And so they waited. And presently at Blind River, 
Kelly, dictating to the operator — not Beale, Beale’s 
day man — told the story. It lost nothing in the tell- 
ing — Kelly wasn’t that kind of man — he told them 
what Toddles had done, and he left nothing out; and 
he added that they had Toddles on a mattress 
in the baggage car, with a doctor they had discovered 
amongst the passengers looking after him. 

At the end, Carleton tamped down the dottle in the 
bowl of his pipe thoughtfully with his forefinger — 
and glanced at Donkin. 

“ Got along far enough to take a station key some- 
where?” he inquired casually. “ He’s made a pretty 
good job of it as the night operator at Cassil’s.” 

256 


THE NIGHT OPERATOR 


Donkin was smiling. 

“ Not yet/’ he said. 

“No?” Carleton’s eyebrows went up. “Well, 
let him come in here with you, then, till he has; and 
when you say he’s ready, we’ll see what we can do. I 
guess it’s coming to him ; and I guess ” — he shifted 
his glance to the master mechanic — “ I guess we’ll go 
down and meet Number Two when she comes in, 
Tommy.” 

Regan grinned. 

“ With our hats in our hands,” said the big-hearted 
master mechanic. 

Donkin shook his head. 

“ Don’t you do it,” he said. “ I don’t want him to 
get a swelled head.” 

Carleton stared; and Regan’s hand, reaching into 
his back pocket for his chewing, stopped midway. 

Donkin was still smiling. 

“ I’m going to make a railroad man out of Tod- 
dles,” he said. 



By Ralph Connor. 

I T was due to a mysterious dispensation of Provi- 
dence and a good deal to Leslie Graeme that I 
found myself in the heart of the Selkirks for my 
Christmas eve as the year 1882 was dying. It had 
been my plan to spend my Christmas far away in 
Toronto, with such bohemian and boon companions 
as could be found in that cosmopolitan and kindly 
city. But Leslie Graeme changed all that, for, dis- 
covering me in the village of Black Rock, with my 
traps all packed, waiting for the stage to start for the 
Landing, thirty miles away, he bore down upon me 
with resistless force, and I found myself recovering 
from my surprise only after we had gone in his lum- 
ber sleigh some six miles on our way to his camp up 
in the mountains. I was surprised and much de- 
lighted, though I would not allow him to think so, to 
find that his old-time power over me was still there. 
He could always in the old varsity days — dear, wild 

1 From Black Rock. Reprinted by special permission of pub- 
lisher, The Fleming H. Revell Company. 

258 



CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP 


days — make me do what he liked. He was so hand- 
some and so reckless, brilliant in his class work, and 
the prince of half backs on the Rugby field, and with 
such power of fascination as would “ extract the heart 
out of a wheelbarrow/’ as Barney Lundy used to say. 
And thus it was that I found myself just three weeks 
later — I was to have spent two or three days — on 
the afternoon of December 24, standing in Graeme’s 
Lumber Camp No. 2, wondering at myself. But I 
did not regret my changed plans, for in those three 
weeks I had raided a cinnamon bear’s den and had 

wakened up a grizzly But I shall let the grizzly 

finish the tale ; he probably sees more humor in it than 

I. 

The camp stood in a little clearing, and consisted 
of a group of three long, low shanties with smaller 
shacks near them, all built of heavy, unhewn logs, 
with door and window in each. The grub camp, with 
cook-shed attached, stood in the middle of the clear- 
ing; at a little distance was the sleeping camp with 
the office built against it, and about a hundred yards 
away on the other side of the clearing stood the stables, 
and near them the smiddy. The mountains rose 
grandly on every side, throwing up their great peaks 
into the sky. The clearing in which the camp stood 
was hewn out of a dense pine forest that filled the 
valley and climbed halfway up the mountain sides and 
then frayed out in scattered and stunted trees. 

It was one of those wonderful Canadian winter days, 
259 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


bright, and with a touch of sharpness in the air that 
did not chill, but warmed the blood like drafts of wine. 
The men were up in the woods, and the shrill scream 
of the blue jay flashing across the open, the impudent 
chatter of the red squirrel from the top of the grub 
camp, and the pert chirp of the whisky- jack, hopping 
about on the rubbish-heap, with the long, lone cry of 
the wolf far down the valley, only made the silence felt 
the more. 

As I stood drinking in with all my soul the glorious 
beauty and the silence of mountain and forest, with 
the Christmas feeling stealing into me, Graeme came 
out from his office, and catching sight of me, called 
out, “ Glorious Christmas weather, old chap ! ” And 
then, coming nearer, “ Must you go to-morrow? ” 

“ I fear so,” I replied, knowing well that the Christ- 
mas feeling was on him, too. 

“ I wish I were going with you,” he said quietly. 

I turned eagerly to persuade him, but at the look 
of suffering in his face the words died at my lips, 
for we both were thinking of the awful night of 
horror when all his bright, brilliant life crashed down 
about him in black ruin and shame. I could only 
throw my arm over his shoulder and stand silent be- 
side him. A sudden jingle of bells roused him, and, 
giving himself a little shake, he exclaimed, “ There 
are the boys coming home.” 

Soon the camp was filled with men talking, laugh- 
ing, chaffing like light-hearted boys. 

260 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP 


“ They are a little wild to-night, ” said Graeme, 
“ and to-morrow they’ll paint Black Rock red.” 

Before many minutes had gone the last teamster 
was “ washed up,” and all were standing about wait- 
ing impatiently for the cook’s signal — the supper to- 
night was to be “ something of a feed ” — when the 
sound of bells drew their attention to a light sleigh 
drawn by a buckskin broncho coming down the hill- 
side at a great pace. 

“ The preacher, I’ll bet, by his driving,” said one 
of the men. 

“ Bedad, and it’s him has the foine nose for tur- 
key! ” said Blaney, a good-natured, jovial Irishman. 

“ Yes, or for pay-day, more like,” said Keefe, a 
black-browed, villainous fellow countryman of 
Blaney ’s and, strange to say, his great friend. 

Big Sandy McNaughton, a Canadian Highlander 
from Glengarry, rose up in wrath. 

“ Bill Keefe,” said he with deliberate emphasis, 
“ you’ll just keep your dirty tongue off the minister; 
and as for your pay, it’s little he sees of it, or any 
one else except Mike Slavin, when you’s too dry to 
wait for some one to treat you, or perhaps Father 
Ryan, when the fear of hell-fire is on you.” 

The men stood amazed at Sandy’s sudden anger and 
length of speech. 

“Bon! Dat’s good for you, my bully boy,” said 
Baptiste, a wiry little French-Canadian, Sandy’s sworn 
ally and devoted admirer ever since the day when the 
261 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


big Scotchman, under great provocation, had knocked 
him clean off the dump into the river and then jumped 
in for him. 

It was not till afterward I learned the cause of 
Sandy’s sudden wrath which urged him to such un- 
wonted length of speech. It was not simply that the 
Presbyterian blood carried with it reverence for the 
minister, but that he had a vivid remembrance of how, 
only a month ago, the minister had got him out of 
Mike Slavin’s saloon and out of the clutches of Keefe 
and Slavin and their gang of bloodsuckers. 

Keefe started up with a curse. Baptiste sprang to 
Sandy’s side, slapped him on the back, and called out : 

“ You keel him, I’ll hit [eat] him up, me.” 

It looked as if there might be a fight, when a harsh 
voice said in a low, savage tone : 

“ Stop your row, you fools; settle it, if you want to, 
somewhere else.” 

I turned, and was amazed to see old man Nelson, 
who was very seldom moved to speech. 

There was a look of scorn on his hard iron-gray 
face, and of such settled fierceness as made me quite 
believe the tales I had heard of his deadly fights in the 
mines at the coast. Before any reply could be made 
the minister drove up and called out in a cheery 
voice : 

“ Merry Christmas, boys ! Hello, Sandy ! Com- 
ment ga va, Baptiste? How do you do, Mr. Graeme? ” 

“ First rate. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. 
262 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP 


Connor, sometime medical student, now artist, hunter, 
and tramp at large, but not a bad sort.” 

“ A man to be envied,” said the minister, smiling. 
“I am glad to know any friend of Mr. Graeme’s.” 

I liked Mr. Craig from the first. He had good 
eyes that looked straight out at >ou, a clean-cut, strong 
face well set on his shoulders, and altogether an up- 
standing, manly bearing. He insisted on going with 
Sandy to the stables to see Dandy, his broncho, put 
up. 

“ Decent fellow,” said Graeme ; “ but though he is 
good enough to his broncho, it is Sandy that’s in his 
mind now.” 

“Does he come out often? I mean, are you part 
of his parish, so to speak ? ” 

“ I have no doubt he thinks so; and I’m blowed if 
he doesn’t make the Presbyterians of us think so too.” 
And he added after a pause: “ A dandy lot of parish- 
ioners we are for any man. There’s Sandy, now, he 
would knock Keefe’s head off as a kind of religious 
exercise ; but to-morrow Keefe will be sober and Sandy 
will be drunk as a lord, and the drunker he is the better 
Presbyterian he’ll be, to the preacher’s disgust.” Then 
after another pause he added bitterly : “ But it is not 
for me to throw rocks at Sandy. I am not the same 
kind of fool, but I am a fool of several other sorts.” 

Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the 
bottom of a dishpan. Baptiste answered with a yell. 
But though keenly hungry, no man would demean 
263 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


himself to do other than walk with apparent reluct- 
ance to his place at the table. At the further end of 
the camp was a big fireplace, and from the door of 
the fireplace extended the long board tables, covered 
with platters of turkey not too scientifically carved, 
dishes of potatoes, bowls of apple sauce, plates of 
butter, pies, and smaller dishes distributed at regular 
intervals. Two lanterns hanging from the roof and a 
row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by 
means of slit sticks cast a dim, weird light over the 
scene. 

There was a moment’s silence, and at a nod from 
Graeme Mr. Craig rose and said : 

“ I don’t know how you feel about it, men, but to 
me this looks good enough to be thankful for.” 

“ Fire ahead, sir,” called out a voice quite respect- 
fully, and the minister bent his head and said: 

“ For Christ the Lord who came to save us, for 
all the love and goodness we have known, and for 
these Thy gifts to us this Christmas night, our Father, 
make us thankful. Amen.” 

“ Bon! Dat’s fuss rate,” said Baptiste. “ Seems 
lak dat’s make me hit [eat] more better for sure.” 
And then no word was spoken for a quarter of an 
hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments 
too precious for anything so empty as words. But 
when the white piles of bread and the brown piles of 
turkey had for a second time vanished, and after the 
last pie had disappeared, there came a pause and a 
264 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP 


hush of expectancy, whereupon the cook and cookee, 
each bearing aloft a huge, blazing pudding, came forth. 

“Hooray!” yelled Blaney; “up wid yez!” and 
grabbing the cook by the shoulders from behind, he 
faced him about. 

Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the 
cookee in the same way, called out : “ Squad, fall in ! 
quick march ! ” In a moment every man was in the 
procession. 

“ Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel ! ” shouted 
Blaney, the appellation a concession to the minister’s 
presence; and away went Baptiste in a rollicking 
French song with the English chorus — 

Then blow, ye winds, in the morning, 

Blow, ye winds, ay oh! 

Blow, ye winds, in the morning, 

Blow, blow, blow. 

And at each “ blow ” every boot came down with a 
thump on the plank floor that shook the solid roof. 
After the second round Mr. Craig jumped upon the 
bench and called out : 

“ Three cheers for Billy the cook ! ” 

In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was 
heard to say: 

“Bon! Dat’s mak me feel lak hit dat puddin’ all 
hup meself, me.” 

“ Hear till the little baste ! ” said Blaney in disgust. 

“ Batchees,” remonstrated Sandy gravely, “ ye’ve 
more stomach than manners.” 

265 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“Fu sure! but de more stomach, dat’s more better 
for dis puddin’,” replied the little Frenchman cheer- 
fully. 

After a time the tables were cleared and pushed 
back to the wall and pipes were produced. In all 
attitudes suggestive of comfort the men disposed them- 
selves in a wide circle about the fire, which now roared 
and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging 
from the roof. The lumberman’s hour of bliss had 
arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a shade less 
melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from 
the fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the 
second pipes were well a-going one of the men took 
down a violin from the wall and handed it to Lachlan 
Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just 
out from Argyll, typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, 
silent, melancholy, with the face of a mystic, and 
Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to 
his brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover 
under biting, sarcastic speech. 

Lachlan, after much protestation, interposed with 
gibes from his brother, took the violin, and in response 
to the call from all sides struck up “ Lord Macdonald’s 
Reel.” 

In a moment the floor was filled with dancers, 
whooping and cracking their fingers in the wildest 
manner. Then Baptiste did the “ Red River Jig,” a 
most intricate and difficult series of steps, the men 
keeping time to the music with hands and feet. 

266 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP 


When the jig was finished Sandy called for 
“ Lochaber No More,” but Campbell said: 

“ No! no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig 
will play.” 

Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew 
he was no ordinary player. I did not recognize the 
music, but it was soft and thrilling, and got in by the 
heart till every one was thinking his tenderest and 
saddest thoughts. 

After he had played two or three exquisite bits he 
gave Campbell his violin, saying, “ Now, ‘ Lochaber,’ 
Lachlan.” 

Without a word Lachlan began, not “ Lochaber ” 
— he was not ready for that yet — but “ The Flowers 
o ’ the Forest,” and from that wandered through 
“ Auld Robin Gray ” and “ The Land o ’ the Leal,” 
and so got at last to that most soul-subduing of Scot- 
tish laments, “ Lochaber No More.” At the first 
strain his brother, who had thrown himself on some 
blankets behind the fire, turned over on his face feign- 
ing sleep. Sandy McNaughton took his pipe out of 
his mouth and sat up straight and stiff, staring into 
vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, 
sharp breath. We had often sat, Graeme and I, in 
our student days, in the drawing-room at home, listen- 
ing to his father wailing out “ Lochaber ” upon the 
pipes, and I well knew that the awful minor strains 
were now eating their way into his soul. 

Over and over again the Highlander played his la- 
ment. He had long since forgotten us, and was see- 
ing visions of the hills and lochs and glens of his far- 
267 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


away native land, and making us, too, see strange 
things out of the dim past. I glanced at old man 
Nelson, and was startled at the eager, almost piteous 
look in his eyes, and I wished Campbell would stop. 
Mr. Craig caught my eye, and stepping over to Camp- 
bell held out his hand for the violin. Lingeringly and 
lovingly the Highlander drew out the last strain and 
silently gave the minister his instrument. 

Without a moment’s pause, and while the spell of 
“ Lochaber ” was still upon us, the minister, with 
exquisite skill, fell into the refrain of that simple and 
beautiful camp-meeting hymn, “ The Sweet By-and- 
By.” After playing the verse through once he sang 
softly the refrain. After the first verse the men 
joined in the chorus; at first timidly, but by the time 
the third verse was reached they were shouting with 
throats full open, u We shall meet on that beautiful 
shore.” When I looked at Nelson the eager light 
had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was a kind 
of determined hopelessness, as if in this new music he 
had no part. 

After the voices had ceased Mr. Craig played again 
the refrain, more and more softly and slowly; then 
laying the violin on Campbell’s knees, he drew from 
his pocket his little Bible and said: 

“ Men, with Mr. Graeme’s permission I want to 
read you something this Christmas eve. You will all 
have heard it before, but you will like it none the less 
for that.” 

His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he 
read the eternal story of the angels and the shepherds 
268 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP 


and the Babe. And as he read, a slight motion of the 
hand or a glance of an eye made us see, as he was 
seeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the 
timid joy, the tenderness, the mystery of it all, were 
borne in upon us with overpowering effect. He 
closed the book, and in the same low, clear voice went 
on to tell us how, in his home years ago, he used to 
stand on Christmas eve listening in thrilling delight 
to his mother telling him the story, and how she used 
to make him see the shepherds and hear the sheep 
bleating near by, and how the sudden burst of glory 
used to make his heart jump. 

“ I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because 
a boy told me they were ghosts; but my mother told 
me better, and I didn’t fear them any more. And 
the Baby, the dear little Baby — we all love a baby.” 
There was a quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson. 
“ I used to peek through under to see the little one in 
the straw, and wonder what things swaddling clothes 
were. Oh, it was so real and so beautiful!” He 
paused, and I could hear the men breathing. 

“ But one Christmas eve,” he went on in a lower, 
sweeter tone, “ there was no one to tell me the story, 
and I grew to forget it and went away to college, and 
learned to think that it was only a child’s tale and was 
not for men. Then bad days came to me and worse, 
and I began to lose my grip of myself, of life, of hope, 
of goodness, till one black Christmas, in the slums of 
a far-away city, when I had given up all and the devil’s 
arms were about me, I heard the story again. And 
as I listened, with a bitter ache in my heart — for I 
269 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


had put it all behind me — I suddenly found myself 
peeking under the shepherds’ arms with a child’s 
wonder at the Baby in the straw. Then it came over 
me like great waves that His name was Jesus, because 
it was He that should save men from their sins. 
Save! Save! The waves kept beating upon my 
ears, and before I knew I had called out, ‘Oh! can 
He save me ? ’ It was in a little mission meeting on 
one of the side streets, and they seemed to be used to 
that sort of thing there, for no one was surprised; 
and a young fellow leaned across the aisle to me and 
said: ‘Why, you just bet He can!’ His surprise 
that I should doubt, his bright face and confident tone, 
gave me hope that perhaps it might be so. I held to 
that hope with all my soul, and ” — stretching up his 
arms, and with a quick glow in his face and a little 
break in his voice — “ He hasn’t failed me yet ; not 
once, not once ! ” 

He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like 
making a fool of myself, for in those days I had not 
made up my mind about these things. Graeme, poor 
old chap, was gazing at him with a sad yearning in his 
dark eyes ; big Sandy was sitting very stiff and staring 
harder than ever into the fire; Baptiste was trembling 
with excitement; Blaney was openly wiping the tears 
away, But the face that held my eyes was that of old 
man Nelson. It was white, fierce, hungry-looking, 
his sunken eyes burning, his lips parted as if to cry. 
The minister went on. 

“ I didn’t mean to tell you this, men ; it all came over 
me with a rush; but it is true, every word, and not a 
270 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP 


word will I take back. And, what’s more, I can tell 
you this : what He did for me He can do for any man, 
and it doesn’t make any difference what’s behind him, 
and ” — leaning slightly forward, and with a little 
thrill of pathos vibrating in his voice — “ oh, boys, 
why don’t you give Him a chance at you? Without 
Him you’ll never be the men you want to be, and 
you’ll never get the better of that that’s keeping some 
of you now from going back home. You know you’ll 
never go back till you’re the men you want to be.” 
Then, lifting up his face and throwing back his head, 
he said, as if to himself, “ Jesus! He shall save His 
people from their sins,” and then, “ Let us pray.” 

Graeme leaned forward with his face in his hands; 
Baptiste and Blaney dropped on their knees; Sandy, 
the Campbells, and some others stood up. Old man 
Nelson held his eye steadily on the minister. 

Only once before had I seen that look on a human 
face. A young fellow had broken through the ice on 
the river at home, and as the black water was dragging 
his fingers one by one from the slippery edges, there 
came over his face that same look. I used to wake up 
for many a night after in a sweat of horror, seeing the 
white face with its parting lips and its piteous, dumb 
appeal, and the black water slowly sucking it down. 

Nelson’s face brought it all back; but during the 
prayer the face changed and seemed to settle into re- 
solve of some sort, stern, almost gloomy, as of a man 
with his last chance before him. 

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BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


After the prayer Mr. Craig invited the men to a 
Christmas dinner next day in Black Rock. “ And be- 
cause you are an independent lot, we’ll charge you half 
a dollar for dinner and the evening show.” Then 
leaving a bundle of magazines and illustrated papers 
on the table — a godsend to the men — he said good- 
by and* went out. 

I was to go with the minister, so I jumped into the 
sleigh first and waited while he said good-by to 
Graeme, who had been hard hit by the whole service 
and seemed to want to say something. I heard Mr. 
Craig say cheerfully and confidently: “ It’s a true 
bill: try Him.” 

Sandy, who had been steadying Dandy while that 
interesting broncho was attempting with great success 
to balance himself on his hind legs, came to say 
good-by. 

“ Come and see me first thing, Sandy.” 

“ Aye ! I know ; I’ll see ye, Mr. Craig,” said Sandy 
earnestly as Dandy dashed off at a full gallop across 
the clearing and over the bridge, steadying down when 
he reached the hill. 

“ Steady, you idiot ! ” 

This was to Dandy, who had taken a sudden side 
spring into the deep snow, almost upsetting us. A 
man stepped out from the shadow. It was old man 
Nelson. He came straight to the sleigh and, ignoring 
my presence completely, said: 

“Mr. Craig, are you dead sure of this? Will it 
work? ” 

“ Do you mean,” said Craig, taking him up prompt- 
272 


CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP 


ly, “ can Jesus Christ save you from your sins and 
make a man of you?” 

The old man nodded, keeping his hungry eyes on 
the other's face. 

“ Well, here’s His message to you : * The Son of 
Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.’ ” 

“ To me? To me? ” said the old man eagerly. 

“ Listen ; this, too, is His word : ‘ Him that cometh 

unto Me I will in no wise cast out.’ That’s for you, 
for here you are, coming.” 

“ You don’t know me, Mr. Craig. I left my baby 
fifteen years ago because ” 

“ Stop ! ” said the minister. “ Don’t tell me, at 
least not to-night; perhaps never. Tell Him who 
knows it all now and who never betrays a secret. 
Have it out with Him. Don’t be afraid to trust 
Him.” 

Nelson looked at him, with his face quivering, and 
said in a husky voice: 

“If this is no good, it’s hell for me.” 

“If it is no good,” replied Craig almost sternly, 
“ it’s hell for all of us.” 

The old man straightened himself up, looked up at 
the stars, then back at Mr. Craig, then at me, and 
drawing a deep breath said: 

“ I’ll try Him.” As he was turning away the min- 
ister touched him on the arm and said quietly: 

“ Keep an eye on Sandy to-morrow.” 

Nelson nodded and we went on; but before we took 
the next turn I looked back and saw what brought a 
lump into my throat. It was old man Nelson on his 
273 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


knees in the snow, with his hands spread upward to 
the stars, and I wondered if there was any One above 
the stars and nearer than the stars who could see. 
And then the trees hid him from my sight. 



XII.— The Story That the Keg Told Me 

By Adirondack (W. H. H.) Murray 

The author is “ Adirondack Murray” because he, more 
than any other man, rediscovered for the past and present 
generation the wonderfid Adirondack Woods. We are 
grateful to Mr. Archibald Rutledge for having shortened the 
story, and to Mr. Murray's publishers, De Wolfe and Fiske 
Company, for permission to print it in the abbreviated form. 
— 'The Editor. 

I T was near the close of a sultry day in midsummer, 
which I had spent in exploring a part of the shore 
line of the lake where I was camping, and wearied 
with the trip I had made, I was returning toward the 
camp. 

The lake was a very secluded sheet of water hidden 
away between the mountains, not marked on the map, 
whose very existence was unsuspected by me until I 
had a few days before accidentally stumbled upon it. 
Indeed, in all the world there is hardly another sheet 
of water so likely to escape the eye, not only of the 
tourist and the sportsman, but also of the hunter and 
the trapper. Day by day as I paddled over the lake or 
explored its shores the conviction grew upon me that 
the place had never before been visited by any human 
being. The more I examined and explored, the more 
275 



BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


this belief grew upon me. The thought was ever 
with me. But on this afternoon as I was paddling 
leisurely along, my paddle struck some curious object 
in the water. I reached down and lifted it into the 
boat. It was a Keg! 

Amazed, I sat looking at this proof that my lake 
was not so unknown as I had supposed it to be. 
Where had it come from? How did it get here? 
Who brought it, and for what purpose? These and 
similar questions I put to myself as I paddled onward 
toward my camp. 

After having built my camp fire I seated myself 
with my back against a pine ; it was then that my gaze 
again fell on the Keg, which I had brought up from 
the boat and had set on the ground across the fire 
from me. I sat wondering where it had come from, 
and what had become of him who must once have 
handled it ... . It may be that I was awake ; it may 
be that I was asleep ; but as I was thus looking steadily 
and curiously at the Keg, it seemed to change its ap- 
pearance. It was no longer a Keg : it was a man ! A 
queer little man he was, with strange little legs, and the 
funniest little body, and the tiniest little face! Then, 
standing bold upright, and looking at me with eyes 
that glistened like black beads, the miraculous Keg- 
Man opened his mouth and began to talk! 

“ I desire to tell you my story,” it said ; “the story 
of the man who brought me here; why he did it, and 
what became of him ; how he lived and died. 

276 


THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 


“ The earliest remembrance I have of myself is of 
the cooper’s shop where I was made. Although I 
look worn now, I can recall the time when all my 
staves were smooth and clean, so that the oak-grain 
showed clearly from the top to the bottom of me, and 
my steel hoops were strong and bright. The cooper 
made me on his honor and took a deal of honest pride 
in putting me together, as every workman should in 
doing his work. I remember that when I was finished 
and the cooper had sanded me off and oiled me, he set 
me up on a bench and said to his apprentice boy: 

‘ There, that Keg will last till the Judgment Day, and 
well on toward night at that.’ I wondered at that. 

“ One day a few weeks later a man came into the 
shop and said, ‘ Have you a good strong keg for 
sale ? ’ 

“ He put the question in such a half-spiteful, half- 
suspicious way that I eyed him curiously. And a 
very peculiar man I saw. He was not more than 
forty years old, of good height and strongly built. 
He was a gentleman, evidently, although his face was 
darkly tanned and his clothes were old and threadbare. 
His mouth was small. His lips were thin, and had a 
look of being drawn tightly over his teeth. His chin 
was long, his jaws large and strong. His hair was 
thin and brown. But the remarkable feature of his 
face was his eyes. They were blue-gray in color, 
small, and deeply set under his arching eye-brows. 
How hard and steel-like they were, and restless as a 
277 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


rat’s! And what an intense look of suspicion there 
was in them; a half-scared, defiant look, as if their 
owner felt every one to be his enemy. Ah, what eyes 
they were! I came to know them well afterward, 
and to know what the wild, strange light in them 
meant; but of that by and by. 

Have you a good strong keg for sale ? * he shout- 
ed to my master, who turned round and looked 
squarely at the questioner. 

“ * Yes, I have, Mr. Roberts. Do you want one?’ 

“ * Yes! ’ returned the other; * but I want a strong 
one — strong , do you hear ? ’ 

“ ‘ Here’s a keg,’ said my master, tapping me with 
his mallet, ‘ that I made with my own hands from the 
very best stuff. It will last as long as steel and white 
oak staves will last/ 

“ The price was paid with a muttered protest and 
Roberts hoisted me under his arm and bore me from 
the shop. 

“ As we hurried along, I noticed that my new mas- 
ter spoke to no one, and that people looked at him 
coldly or wonderingly. At last we came to a 
common-looking house set back from the road, with 
a very high fence built around it and a heavy padlock 
on the front gate. There were great strong wooden 
shutters at every window. My master entered the 
house and set me down on the floor, then went to the 
door and locked it, drawing two large iron bars across 
it. He went to every window to see if it was fastened. 

278 


THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 


Carrying a candle in one hand and a great bludgeon 
in the other, he examined every room, every closet, 
the attic, and the cellar. After this he came back to 
me, set me on a table, started one of my hoops, and 
took out one of my heads. From a cupboard he got 
a large sheepskin, and with a pair of shears fitted me 
with a lining of it. I must say that he did it with 
cleverness, and he seemed well pleased with his 
work. 

“ When he had done all this, he brought his blud- 
geon and laid it on the table beside me; also he laid 
there, a large knife. Then he went to the chimney 
and brought the ash-pail, which was full of ashes; 
from the cupboard he brought an earthen jar; from 
under the bed he fetched a bag; from the cellar he 
returned with a sack, all damp and moldy. When he 
had all these side by side near the table, he sat down. 
Then out of the ash-pail he took a small pot, and 
having carefully blown the ashes off, he turned it 
bottom-upward on the table. And what do you think 
was in it? 

'‘Gold coins! Some red and some yellow, but all 
gold! 

“ He emptied each of the other receptacles, and out 
there flowed heaps of gold coins almost without 
number! How they gleamed and glistened! How 
they clinked and jingled! And how the deep and 
narrow eyes of my master glittered, but how the lips 
drew apart in a wild smile ! 

279 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ It was a fearful sight to see him playing with the 
gold and to hear him laugh over his treasure. It was 
dreadful to think that a human soul could love money 
so. And he did love it — madly, with all the strength 
of his nature. 

“ He would take up a coin and look at it as a father 
might look upon the face of a favorite child. Ah, 
me, ’twas dreadful! He would take up a piece and 
say to it, ‘ Thou art better to me than a wife * ; and to 
another, ‘ Thou art dearer than father or mother ! ’ 
Ah, such blasphemy as I heard that night! How 
the sweet and blessed things of human life were de- 
rided, and the things that are divine and holy sneered 
at! 

“ At length he fell to counting his gold ; and for a 
long, long time he counted, until his hands shook, and 
his eyes gleamed as if he were mad. When he had 
counted all, he jumped from his seat, shouting like a 
maniac, * Sixteen thousand, six hundred and sixty-six 
dollars ! ’ Again and again he shouted this in wild 
triumph. 

“ After a while he sobered down, and inside of me 
he began to pack away his treasures — carefully, 
caressingly, as a mother might lay her children to 
sleep. When I was full to the brim with shining 
gold, he put my head on, fitted the upper hoop on 
snugly, and then put me in the bed. The great knife 
he slipped under the pillow. Then, blowing out the 
light, he lay down beside me with one arm thrown 
280 


THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 


about me. So the miser, clasping me to his heart, 
fell asleep. 

“ Day after day, night after night, this selfsame 
performance was repeated. My master did little 
work; indeed, he did not seem eager to increase his 
store, but merely to hold it safely. But about this he 
was so anxious that he was in a fever of excitement 
all the time. For days he would not leave the house. 
Never was he free from the fear of losing his money. 
And this suspicion had poisoned his whole life, had 
made him hate his kind and lose all belief in the love 
and the goodness of God, that he had once professed. 

“ One day in summer he left the front door open. 
I was drowsing, when suddenly I heard him give a 
frightened yell. In the doorway stood a man and a 
woman. The man was the village pastor, and the 
woman, I soon learned, was my master’s wife. For 
a moment my master stood looking angrily at them. 
Then he said abruptly, 'Why did you come here?’ 

“ ‘ John/ said the woman, * your child Mary is 
dying ; and I thought that you, her father, would want 
to see her before she passed away/ Her voice choked, 
and her breast heaved with sobs. 

“ ‘ Dying, is she ? ’ said my master brutally. ‘ I 
don’t believe it. You are simply after my gold. You 
might as well get away from here,’ he added with a 
threatening look. 

“ ‘ John,’ returned the woman, great tears coming 
to her eyes, ‘ I never in my life lied to you. Mary is 
281 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


dying, and I could not let her go without giving you 
a chance to see her. Last night in her delirium she 
begged for you. She wants you, John; she wants to 
say good-by to you ! ’ 

“ But my master remained unmoved. The sinister 
look in the eyes, the doggedness of the face did not 
change. He stared at them ; then he shouted in 
frenzy: ‘You lie! You want my money! Every- 
body wants it! Everybody loves it! There isn’t an 
honest man in the world! All are thieves! All are 
lovers of gold ! I know by your looks that you love 
it,’ he went on ; ‘ and you can’t fool me by your tears 
and your preaching. You get out of this house! ’ he 
suddenly shrieked, ‘ or I will kill you, — both of you! ’ 
He swore a terrible oath and stepped back to seize the 
heavy bludgeon on the table. The woman cried out 
in fear and turned away weeping. But the parson 
stood his ground. 

“ * John Roberts,’ he said, ‘ thou art a doomed man. 
The lust of gold that destroys so many is in thee 
strong and mighty, and only God can save thee, nor 
He against thy will. Repent, or thou shalt perish in 
a lonely place, on a dark night, with none to help thee 
or hear thy cries; and all thy gold shall perish with 
thee.’ So saying, he turned and slowly left the house. 

“ For a moment my master stood glaring at the 
retreating forms of those who had come to him as 
friends, but whom he had treated as enemies; then 
he rushed for the door and locked it. After that he 
282 


THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 


lifted me tenderly upon the table, laughed softly, pat- 
ted me with his hands, and stroked me caressingly. 
4 My gold,’ he kept repeating, ‘ my precious, precious 
gold ! ’ And as night came on, he poured out the gold 
and counted the glittering pieces. Again and again 
he counted his treasure until deep midnight had settled 
over all. 

“ But when he awoke in the morning he was very 
nervous. All day long he neither opened the door 
nor unbarred the shutters. All the while he kept mut- 
tering to himself as if planning some crafty plot. I 
could not know what all this might mean, but I caught 
enough of his talk to understand that he was more 
than ever suspicious of losing his money, was fearing 
all man-kind more and more, and was trying to devise 
some scheme whereby he could find a place where no 
one could molest him or try to steal his gold. * They 
will get it yet/ he kept saying, ‘ unless I can go where 
no one can find me/ Then he would curse his kind. 

“ At last, after hours of muttering and tramping 
back and forth in the darkened house, he suddenly 
seemed to find his decision. I shall never forget the 
terrible expression of evil triumph on his face as he 
paused before me and shouted : 

“ ‘ I’ll go ! Go where they can never find me ! I 
want to be alone with my money, where I can spread 
it out and see it shine! I will go where there is not 
a man ! ’ 

“ After my master had said that, he made no fur- 
283 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


ther remarks; but he began with eager haste to pack a 
few things for his journey. He put me in a sack in 
which I could neither see nor hear what was happen- 
ing; and that was all I knew for many a day. But 
all the while I felt myself being carried , carried, 
carried! One day I realized that I had been put in a 
boat; then we went on and on, day after day. Finally 
the boat was stopped and I was carried ashore. Then 
for the first time in many a long day I was taken from 
the bag. Again I saw the world about me. But how 
different were my surroundings from those of my 
old home! Where was I? I was on the very point 
of land off which you found me this evening. 

“ For the first few weeks of our stay on the shores 
of this lonely lake, things continued almost as they 
had been at home. The gold was my master’s single 
thought. He seemed happy, almost joyous, in the 
thought that he and I were at last out of the reach of 
men. Most of his time was spent looking at his gold. 
Every morning and every evening he would take me 
down to that point yonder where the sun shines 
clearly, and there would pour the treasure out in a 
great pile. He always did this exultingly. And his 
greatest pleasure was to play with the yellow coins, to 
count them over and over, and to laugh to himself in 
a satisfied way. 

“ But after a time I could see that a change was 
coming over my master. He grew grave and quiet. 
No, more, as he poured out his gold, did he chuckle 
284 


THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 

and laugh to himself. All his movements seemed 
listless. He counted his money less frequently, and 
when he did so it was in a half-hearted manner. One 
day I even saw him go away and leave the yellow heap 
lying on the sands. At last one day he came, packed 
the gold in me, and put in my head with the greatest 
care. Moreover, when he went back to the camp, he 
left me there on the beach! I felt very strange and 
lonely, and the night seemed long indeed. 

“ At last the daybreak came, and glad I was to see 
it. But it was not until near sunset that my master 
came down to the point where I was. His face was 
as I had never seen it before. It was the countenance 
of a man who had suffered much, and who was still 
suffering. He came to me, paused before me, and 
said : ‘ For thee, thou cursed gold, I have wasted my 
life and ruined my soul ! ’ 

“ For some time he stood thus looking at me ; then 
he began to walk up and down the strip of beach, 
wringing his hands and beating his breast. ‘ Oh, if 
I could only do it! ’ he kept saying; 4 if I could only do 
it! If I could, there might be hope, even for me. 
Lord, help me to do it! Lord, help me ! 9 

“ After many hours of this, which I knew to be 
mental torment for my poor wretched master, when 
he was exhausted in body and in mind, he came back 
along the sands toward me. To my astonishment he 
knelt down beside me, he placed his hands together, 
he lifted his face skyward. My master prayed ! 

285 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ * Lord of the great world/ he said, ‘ come to my 
aid or I am lost. In Thy great mercy, save me! 
Hear where no man may hear, hear Thou my cry; 
Thou Lord of heavenly mercy, lend me thine aid ! ’ 

“ He paused, and over his face I seemed to see the 
dawning of a deep peace. He rose to his feet, lifted 
me, and bore me down to the boat. Then he slowly 
paddled away toward the center of the lake, repeating 
his prayer. At last he checked the boat ; then, having 
looked toward the sky, he said in a low, sweet voice, 
‘ Lord, Thou hast given me grace and strength.’ At 
that he lifted me high above his head ” 

There was a crash as if pieces of wood were falling 
together and my eyes opened with a snap. My fire 
had smoldered down. The Keg, heated by the fire, 
had tumbled inward, and lay there in a confused heap. 

“ What a queer dream,” I said to myself. I was 
really beginning to believe that these things had 
happened. I rose to my feet and stepped down to the 
edge of the lonely water. I am not ashamed to say 
that my blood was chilled at what I saw. As I looked 
across the lake, within twenty feet of where I had 
found the Keg, there was a boat with a man sitting 
motionless in it! 

When that mysterious canoe appeared on the bosom 
of the lonely lake, I thought that I was looking upon a 
vision of a spectral nature. In spite of all my belief 
that I was alone on this remote beach, there sat the 
man in the boat, only a few rods off shore. He was 
286 


THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 


as a mirage, as silent as the very lake itself. A few 
eerie moments passed; then the boat began to move 
slowly toward me, gently propelled by a skillful 
paddle. As it approached, the light of the full moon 
streaming upon it made it easy for me to study its oc- 
cupants. Near the bow I could discern a hound 
crouching. In the stern sat the paddler, his rifle 
across his knees. 

“ Hello, the camp there ! ” shouted the man in the 
boat. 

“ Hello ! ” I called, glad enough to find that my 
strange visitor was no apparition. 

The canoe came ashore, I greeted the boatman, and 
together we walked up toward the camp, the hound 
following us in a leisurely fashion. There I replen- 
ished the fire. Then for a moment the stranger and 
I stood and looked at each other. He was over six 
feet in height, but so symmetrically proportioned in 
his physical stature that, great as it was, he was 
neither awkward nor ungainly. But for the fact that 
his eye had lost its earlier brightness and that his hair 
was sprinkled with threads of gray, it would have been 
impossible to believe that he had reached three-score 
years and ten, for his form was still erect, his step 
elastic, and his voice clear and strong. His features 
were regular and strong, giving proof of the man’s 
self-reliant and indomitable character. Years-, per- 
haps a lifetime of activity in the woods and on the 
lakes, had bronzed the man. From beneath heavy 
287 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


eyebrows looked eyes gray in color and baffling in 
depth. The man’s whole appearance attracted me sin- 
gularly. 

“ Thank ye for your welcome, mister,” he began. 
“ I shouldn’t have dropped in on ye at this onseemly 
hour, but the line of your smoke caught my eye as I 
was turning the point yonder. I didn’t expect to 
find a human being on these shores. I ax your pardon 
for cornin’ in on ye, but I have memories of this spot 
that made me think strange things when I saw your 
camp. I am John Norton, the trapper. And who 
might you be, young man ? ” 

“ I am Henry Herbert,” I replied; “ but just call 
me plain Henry.” 

“ Well, Henry,” began the old trapper, “ I am going 
to call you that. When men meet in the woods they 
don’t put on any airs. I have been in these woods 
sixty-two years, and they have been a home for me, 
for my father and mother are gone, and I have never 
had wife nor child of my own. And I have heard of 
you, Henry. Ye be no stranger to me. For ten 
years back I have heard how you like to travel the 
woods and the waters by yourself, laming things that 
Nature does not tell about in crowds. I have heard, 
too, that you be a good shot, and that you know the 
ways of outwitting the trout and the pickerel. Hear- 
ing about you this way, I knew some day that I would 
come across your trail; but I never thought to run 
agin you to-night, for I’d no idee that mortal man 
288 


THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 


knowed this lake, save me — save me and that 
other ” 

The old man paused, seated himself on the end of 
a log, and gazed into the fire with a solemn look on 
his face. 

I did not feel like breaking in on his meditations, 
whatever they might be. I was silent out of deference 
to his memories. 

“ This lake,” John Norton said at length, “ this 
lake is a strange place. I have been here for eleven 
years. No other place in all this wide country makes 
me feel as this place does.” 

Again he fell into a reverie. I, meanwhile, busied 
myself with supper; and as soon as this was prepared, 
the two of us enjoyed it as only woodmen can. 

“ If you know me,” I said, “ we are no strangers to 
each other, for I know you. Who draws the steadiest 
bead with a rifle; who is the best boatman who ever 
feathered paddle, and who is as honest a man as ever 
drew breath? — who, but John Norton, whom I have 
always been wanting to meet. No man could be as 
welcome to my camp.” 

“ Well, well,” laughed the old man, “ when you’re 
at home you must be one of them detective fellows. 

I see we aren’t no strangers to each other. And if 
while in these woods old John Norton can teach you 
any trick of huntin’ or of fishin’ or of trappin’, be 
sure he will do so for the welcome you have give 
him. ” 


289 


BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


So we sat on either side of the fire, silent for a few 
moments. Then the old trapper said: 

“ I am thinking of the things that happened here 
long years agone. Strange things have come to pass 
on this very point. It is eleven year this very night 
that me and the hound slept here, and a solemn night 
it was, too. . . . God of heaven, man, what is 

that? ” 

The old man’s startled ejaculation brought me to 
my feet as if a panther were upon me. Glancing 
at the spot he had indicated by look and gesture, I be- 
held only the shattered portion of the Keg. Not 
knowing what to make of the trapper’s excited action, 
I said : “ That ? That is only a Keg I picked up in the 
lake this evening.” 

John Norton rose in silence to his feet and went 
over to where the staves lay. One of these he picked 
up and held contemplatively in his hand. 

“ The ways of the Lord are past the knowing of 
mortals,” he said. “ But perhaps in the long run He 
brings the wrong to the right, and so makes the evil 
in the world to praise him. Henry,” said the Old 
Trapper, looking keenly at me, “ I have a mind to tell 
you the story of the man who owned that Keg. A 
strange tale it be, but a true one, and the teachings of 
it be solemn.” 

Eagerly I urged him to give me the story, a part of 
which, at least, I felt that I already knew. 

“ It was eleven year agone, in this very month, that 
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THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 

I came down the inlet yonder into the lake. The moon 
was nigh her full, and everything looked solemn and 
white just as it do now. Lord knows I little thought 
to meet a man in these solitudes when I run agin what 
I am telling ye of. 

“ I was paddling down this side of the lake when I 
heard the strangest sounds I ever heard coming out of 
a bird or beast. Ye better believe, Henry, that I sot 
and listened until I was nothing but ears. But nary 
a thing could I make out of it. After awhile I said 
I would try to ambush the creetur and find out what 
mouth had a language that old John Norton couldn’t 
understand. As I got nearer the shore, my boat just 
drifting in the moonlight, I heerd a kind of crawling 
sound as if the brute was a-trailing himself on the 
ground. The shake of a bush give me the line on him, 
and I felt sure that in a minute I could let the lead 
drive where it ought to go. I had my rifle to my face, 
when by the Lord of marcy, Henry, I diskivered I 
had ambushed a man! 

“ And, Henry,” he continued, “ the words of the 
man was words of prayer. Never in my life was I 
taken so unawares or was so onbalanced as when I 
heard the voice of that man I had mistook for an 
animal break out in fjrayer. For a minute the blood 
stopped in my heart and my hair moved in my scalp ; 
then I shook like a man with the chills. I had come 
that nigh being a murderer, Henry! 

“ How that man prayed ! He prayed for help as 
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BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


one calls to a comrade when his boat has gone down 
under him in the rapids, and he knows he must have 
help or die. This man’s soul was struggling hard, I 
tell ye. The words of his cry come out of his mouth 
like the words of one who is surely lost unless some- 
body saves him. It’s dreadful for a man to live in 
such a way that he has to pray in that fashion ; for we 
ought to live, Henry, so that it is cheerful-like to meet 
the Lord, and pleasant to hold converse with Him. 

“ I sot in my boat till his praying was done ; then 
I hugged myself close in under the bushes, for I heard 
him coming down toward the shore. And he did 
come, and come close to me; and in his arms he car- 
ried something very heavy. In a moment I heard him 
shove a boat out from the bushes; then, getting in, he 
pushed off into the lake. He held for the center of 
it ; and when he had come nigh to the middle of it, he 
laid his paddle down, and lifted something into the 
air. This he turned upside down, and out streamed 
into the water something that glinted in the moonlight, 
After that, he come paddling back for the shore. My- 
self — I kept shy of the man that night, but the next 
morning I went to the stranger's camp. 

“ There was nothing in sight but an old ragged tent, 
sagging at every seam. I called aloud so that mayhap 
the man would answer me. But no answer came. I 
walked up to the tent and drew aside the rotten flap. 
And, Henry, there lay the man senseless before me! 
I thought he was dead, and I onkivered my head. 

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THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 


But the hound here knowed better, for he began to 
wag his tail. I went in, and found that the man was 
still breathing. I lifted him in my arms, Henry, and 
bore him out of the foul air of that tent, taking him 
down to the warm sunshine on the point. 

“ For a long while I thought he was going to die 
in my arms. He just lay there lifeless-like, a-looking 
across the lake with eyes half-shut. But the sun and 
air revived him; and after a long while he stirs and 
says: 

“ * Old man, who are you who are so kind to 
me?’ 

“ I tells him I was John Norton, the trap- 
per. 

“ 4 1 am John Roberts,’ he says, * and I haven’t a 
friend on the earth, nor do I deserve one. Old man, 
you cannot understand, because you have lived an in- 
nocent life, but I am a sinner — a wretched sinner. 
And my moments here are numbered. I will tell you 
of my crimes; I will confess them, for they lie heavy 
on my heart. 

“ ‘ John Norton, I was a miser; I had a heart with 
a passion for gold. For the evil love of money I turned 
my face away from my kind. My wife I deserted. 
My only child I refused, with curses, to see, even when 
she sent for me as she lay dying. John Norton, I gave 
all for gold. And the more I loved it, the more I hated 
man. With my dreadful lust there grew suspicion of 
every one. All ties of affection were severed. I 
lived alone, hoarding my gold and gloating over it. 
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BOY SCOUTS CAMP-FIRE STORIES 


“ * At last I fled from the habitations of men, bring- 
ing my gold, my god, with me in a Keg. Here on this 
lonely shore I thought to be happy, far from my own 
kind, far from any danger that my precious treasure 
be stolen. But, John Norton — and a dying man is 
speaking — for all my counting of the bright gold on 
the sands here, and my dancing about it as a devil 
might, laughing and singing — I was unhappy. I 
knew that God was watching me and was disapproving. 
I could not but think of my wife and child. The 
thought of them began to make the gold hateful to 
me. Ah, then, old man, I began to pray the Lord to 
deliver me! It was a bitter struggle I fought, but at 
length He rescued me. He gave me strength, John 
Norton, to overcome the Wicked One; He gave me 
strength to break away from my sin; He gave me 
strength last night to pour every piece of gold that had 
been for me both love and life, into the lake there. I 
shall never see it more, and I am happy. * 

“After that, he lay silent-like, looking up at the 
blue sky. Then his eyes closed, and I thought him 
sleeping. But suddenly he started up, ‘ A light, a light ! 
I see a light ! ’ Then, Henry, he sank back into my 
arms and spoke no more. I hope my passing may be 
as peaceful as his, and my face as calm as was his after 
his battle of life was over. 

“ The next day I buried him up yonder under them 
hemlocks — having no one to help me, but doing it 
respectful -like, as all such should be done. There he 
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THE STORY THAT THE KEG TOLD 


lies, Henry, the man who was the owner of that 
Keg — John Roberts — the miser who repented be- 
fore it was too late. Nor do I doubt,” he added, in 
his kindly tone, “ but he’s been forgiven by those he 
wronged.” 

































































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